Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

  The clock in sight moved visibly, although snow had gathered on its face.

  Five to six – five past six.

  Well, at least he had been on time, and he couldn’t help it if Derek was late.

  “So you made it.” It wasn’t Derek, but the youth who had accosted him round the corner from Clapp Street. He was dressed in the same clothes, but his cap and his shoulders were thick with snow. His shoulders were still hunched, and it was difficult to see his features clearly, for the peak of the cap hid his eyes.

  Micky jumped round. “Yes, I—I was here early. Where—where’s Derek?”

  “I’ll take you to him,” the youth said. “Leave your bike; no one will run away with it on a night like this; we’ll take a cab. That’s if we can find one.” It didn’t seem to occur to him that taking a cab was almost unique in Micky’s experience.

  One came up, its sign glowing, to announce that it was empty. They got in. Micky sat back, unsteadily, fingers nearly frozen, nose frozen, teeth chattering with the cold. The other youth kept drawing at the cigarette until the ash got so long that it dropped downwards; and when the taxi stopped suddenly, it fell off.

  They turned several corners before they got out, at another corner. The youth paid the cabby off, and then took Micky’s arm. The snow, now inches thick, muffled every sound they made. Other people coming towards them moved with the same uncanny silence; a few held umbrellas; most of them walked with bowed shoulders.

  They turned another corner.

  Micky thought: ‘Why didn’t we come right to the door?’ He didn’t give that much thought, he was too cold and scared; scared because of the danger to Derek.

  Then, they reached a house. It stood back from the road and in its own grounds. A car was parked just along the drive. Lights showed at several windows, and shone upon the snow. Some bushes looked like huge white mushrooms. The noise of traffic behind them vanished, and now they could hear the sounds of their own muffled progress. It seemed a long way to the front door, and the snow gathered on Micky’s boots, so that he seemed to be walking on cobbles, but they reached the door at last, and the youth just turned the handle and thrust it open. As he went in, a bell rang somewhere.

  He closed the door.

  “First floor,” he said.

  “Is Derek here?”

  The youth didn’t speak, but gripped Micky’s arm. He was much stockier and much more powerful than Derek, but there was no physical fear in Micky’s mind then, just uneasiness. They reached the first floor landing, and a door opened as they reached it.

  A big man stood there.

  There was nothing frightening in that; the frightening tiling war the mask he had over his face.

  It was an ordinary papier mâché mask, with a shiny red nose and shiny cheeks, gaps for the mouth and gaps for the eyes; and yet it was frightening. The shock was so great that Micky didn’t move, after a first instinctive pace backwards. He wasn’t allowed to go too far back. The youth gripped his arm and thrust him forwards, and the man with the child’s mask on took his wrist and pulled him into the hall.

  The door closed.

  “Look—look here—” Micky began.

  “Shut your trap,” the man said. His voice was muffled behind his mask, and his grip was tight and painful. “You’ve got a job to do.”

  Something happened to Micky.

  Until that moment he had been edgy and scared and fearful for Derek. Now, he knew that this was a trick, although he didn’t know what it was about. The youth had lied and the man was out to terrify him.

  Micky didn’t say a word, but twisted his left arm free from the youth, and wrenched himself out of the big man’s grip. He grew from a child who looked as if he was masquerading in uniform, to a menacing fighting machine. As he twisted, he made the big man cry out. He hacked at the youth’s shins and, when the big man struck at him, he ducked beneath the blow and rammed his fists, left, right, left, right, into the other’s stomach. The man gave ground, gasping, and the mask slipped to one side, but it didn’t show all of his face. The youth was crouching against the wall, his cap on the floor, his face clearly visible for the first time, with its thin features and the bushy false moustache.

  Micky swung round to the door.

  He pulled at the knob of the Yale lock, felt it slide back and heard a movement behind him. He saw the big man leaping again, but the real danger came from the youth, who had a stick in his hand.

  A stick?

  Whatever it was glinted in the light as he brought it down on the back of Micky’s head.

  A CID man, watching the house where Didi Ames lived, saw the two youths arrive, and made a note in his book. That was all. The snow made it impossible to move quickly or to get a full view of the caller. The detective did not know and could not easily find out whether the youths had gone to the woman’s flat, but he knew that one of the pair lived in another flat in the house. So this was probably nothing to do with Deirdre Ames.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Offer To Micky

  Micky Bryant wasn’t sure whether he lost consciousness or not. He felt the vicious blow, and lost all physical strength. The pain was agonising. He saw strange lights. He knew that he fell. He thought that he was being picked up, but that might have been in a dream. The lights seemed to be going round and round, and there were unfamiliar noises in his ears.

  The light grew steadier.

  He opened his eyes a fraction. They didn’t really hurt, and now, seen through his lashes, the light was misty. He heard a sound, without being quite sure what it was. He opened his eyes wider, but could only see a coal fire burning in a large grate, an armchair opposite him, thick carpet, a small table, a magazine, a box of chocolates and a bottle on a table – but he heard the sound again.

  He was lying on a couch.

  He jerked his head round, and the sudden movement hurt.

  He forgot the hurt.

  A girl came in. He didn’t think ‘girl’; he didn’t think anything, for he was completely surprised. She was lovely. She was rather small, and wore a white gown, a frilly kind of thing, which covered her shoulders but didn’t hide much. It looked like the meringue on cakes. The billowy, frilly material covered her arms, but they looked almost bare. Her fingernails were scarlet and shiny.

  She was lovely.

  So soft looking.

  She saw that he was awake, and stopped for a moment, with her arms raised a little in front of her, and then she came hurrying forward, her arms outstretched, great eyes rounded and looking very bright; almost luminous. Before he realised what was happening, she was on her knees beside him, her arms were round him, and she was holding him close. Nothing like it had ever happened to Micky Bryant. He’d had hurried cuddles and snatched kisses; there was not much that he didn’t know but very little that he had experienced. Now, he was enveloped in this lovely creature, her soft arms were about him, her soft breasts upon him, a sweet smelling perfume was exciting, intoxicating. He didn’t even begin to understand; he had no thought, no memory, no consciousness of anything but the bewildering present.

  Then, gently, she released him so that he fell back a little on soft cushions. She looked into his eyes. His heart raced and thudded like a car which had got out of control; his lips were parted; his arms were about her, lightly and very stiff.

  “Oh, what brutes they were,” she breathed. “I’ll never forgive them, never!” She placed her right hand at the back of his head and pressed his face into her softness, so warmly, so seductively. Then, she drew back again and the full power of her blue eyes, thrown into radiance by a light touch of mascara, was close to his.

  He was, in fact, a nice looking boy.

  “They would never have done it if they hadn’t been drunk,” she said, “but—oh, never mind them; are you feeling better?”

  He managed to say: “Yes, yes, thanks.” He was beginning to think now, but his thoughts were mostly confused.

  “Oh, your head!” she exclaimed, and drew him for
ward again, touching his head gently with her fingers, seeing the bump, touching it enough to make it hurt; but it was exquisite pain. “Thank goodness they didn’t break the skin.” She let him go again, and stood up. “Would you like a whisky, or do you think a cup of coffee would be better? Or tea?”

  “I—I don’t want anything.” Reaction suddenly set in, making him almost angry. What did she think he was? A fool?

  Remember, Derek was in a jam. The vital thing was to try to find a way to help his brother.

  “Oh, you must have something,” she insisted. She was now a few yards away from him, looking so very beautiful, her eyes alive with indignation and pretended concern. “I’ll make you some coffee, I Blink. You’ll like that and I’m sure it will help.” But she didn’t move. “They must have been drunk, and of course they’re so angry and—and you’re Derek Bryant’s brother, aren’t you?”

  “Suppose I am.”

  “Why, I can tell you are!” she said. In spite of the antagonism which had taken possession of him, he couldn’t fail to feel attracted, to be keenly aware of her beauty and her appeal. “I feel I can trust you not to pass on anything that I tell you in confidence,” she went on. “Will you promise?”

  He mustn’t let her fool him, remember. He must help Derek. But if she thought she was fooling him, he might learn more. He didn’t have to quarrel or be rude to her.

  “You know what men are,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “I suppose Derek’s no better and no worse than the rest of them. He didn’t tell me that he had a fiancée. I didn’t know until I read about it in the newspapers. He said that he was passionately in love with me!” She gave a little smile, she looked a little sad, and she paused to give Micky time to take in the significance of all this.

  Micky knew that Derek was a fool where girls were concerned. May didn’t know that, but he was.

  “So naturally I trusted him. After all he is a nice looking boy, isn’t he?” The woman paused again for a moment, and then added thoughtfully: “I suppose May Harrison is nice looking, too.”

  “She—she’s all right,” Micky muttered.

  “Well, if I’d only known I wouldn’t have let Derek spend a lot of money on taking me about,” the woman said. “We found out afterwards that it was more than he could afford, and he got badly into debt. Then—well, I hate saying it but I know I can trust you not to pass it on. He stole some of my jewels.”

  Micky thought wildly: ‘Oh, no, he didn’t!’ Derek might play the fool with the girls, might even let May down, but steal – oh, no.

  Yet he wasn’t really sure, and if Derek had stolen her jewels, then her friends had every reason to try to get them back. Deep down, he was more worried than frightened, now. He wanted to ask why she hadn’t gone to the police, but sensed that she would say that she didn’t want to get Derek into trouble. He sensed other things, too. The youth and the man were crooks, and Derek was mixed up with them.

  This woman, too.

  She was watching him very closely.

  “Tell me what happened,” Micky said, huskily.

  “Well—” She hesitated, as if genuinely reluctant to go on. “Well—he owed this money to a moneylender, you know how they put on the squeeze, and then he stole these jewels from me. I don’t know whether he paid the moneylender with them or not, but I do know that something he did made him run away and hide. He’s probably hiding from George, too, because George hates the sight of him. George is my brother—you can understand the way he feels, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” Micky said. ‘George’ would be the big man; Derek wouldn’t be scared of the other one.

  “Well, I lost several thousand pounds’ worth of jewels,” Didi Ames went on. “We know Derek put some of them away in a safe deposit, too. We know where the safe deposit is, but we can’t do anything about it unless we get the key. And the key’s at your house.”

  Micky’s whole body seemed to jump.

  “What?”

  “Well, George and Sammy have searched everywhere else, and haven’t found it. Sammy went to look for it—”

  Micky kept a set face, but hardly heard the next words. So Sammy had broken into his house and attacked May. Sammy had nearly killed her.

  “We don’t know where Derek is or what he’s done, but he’s hiding from the police and us,” the woman went on. “We wouldn’t let him down, but—well, we want those jewels, don’t we?”

  Micky didn’t pay any serious attention to the other story, but faced the fact that they wanted the key desperately.

  “Where is Derek now?” he asked quietly. “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, I told you—he’s hiding.”

  “You mean, the others are keeping him prisoner,” Micky said, and felt sure that he had hit upon the truth; the woman didn’t deny it. “Well, I don’t mind admitting I want to help Derek.” And his mother, and May. “But I’ve got to be sure it would help him.”

  Didi Ames looked at him very thoughtfully.

  “There’s just one way to help Derek,” she said at last, “and that’s by getting the key. That’s the only way.” She went on quickly: “You’re no fool, I can see that. So let me tell you something. George means to get those jewels back, or make Derek pay for it. He can frame Derek for murder, and—”

  Micky flared up. “The swine! If I—”

  “Listen to me,” Didi Ames interrupted urgently. “There’s just one way to help Derek, and that’s by getting the key. Micky, you’ve got to believe me. George—George thought he could frighten you into getting it but—but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, so—so I made him let me handle it.” She paused. “It’s better this way, it really is. If you don’t get the key, they’ll take it out on Derek; you won’t be safe anywhere you go, either.”

  Now, he believed, he had the truth. First they’d used the big stick, then the kid glove; either way they meant to get that key. If he didn’t get it for them, anything might happen to Derek.

  His mother couldn’t stand it. He knew she couldn’t. Nor May; and he couldn’t stand it, either. If these were stolen jewels, what did it matter compared with making things better for Mum?

  That was what he had to do.

  He had heard no hint that Derek might be dead, had no reason to think that he was. Nor could he hope to separate the truth from the lies he had been told. He could only do what he believed to be right.

  “If you can promise me that Derek will be okay, I’ll try and get that key,” he said.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, he’ll be all right if you get it.”

  “How can you be so sure that the key’s at my house?”

  She answered simply: “Derek told us it was.”

  The big man was in the next room when Didi went in. He watched her with a smile that had a quality of tension, and she put her finger to her lips when she saw him. The room was carpeted, and they made no sound as they walked towards the hall, then into the small kitchen. Didi lit the gas and began to heat milk in a small, burnished saucepan, and as he watched her, she said: “Get me that instant coffee out of the larder.”

  He went for it, and asked as he came back: “Think he’ll go and get it?”

  “Of course he’ll go and get it,” she said, “but not because you scared him. He’ll do it for his brother.”

  “You’re better than I thought you were,” the man sneered, “but don’t forget he might get a conscience. If he should tell the police, you’re going to be in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Didi spooned the prepared coffee into a cup very slowly and deliberately.

  “I didn’t want to come right out into the open with this, but you’ve made me,” she said. “So I’m vulnerable. I’ll send the kid to look for the key. You’ve got to make sure that, when he gets it, he can’t give me or anyone else away. I don’t think he’ll talk first; I think he’ll go and get it and come straight back here with it, but—he doesn’t have to get this far, does he?”

  The man said: “How ruthless can a
woman be?”

  She rounded on him.

  “There’s a fortune in this, isn’t there? Am I going to be crazy enough to let a fool of a kid like that get in my way? If you’d thought of him before sending Sammy we’d be better off.”

  “Okay,” the man said. “Shut up.”

  Didi didn’t answer, but poured the now boiling milk on to the coffee, stirring in sugar as she poured. She was quite calm.

  She finished stirring, and there was a creamy froth on top of the coffee. She took some biscuits out of a tin and put them on a plate, then went towards the hall again.

  “He’s got to be followed all the way home and back; you’ve got to make absolutely sure of him,” she said.

  “We’ll make sure of him,” the man promised.

  She smiled.

  She was beautiful.

  She smiled at Micky, as she went into the big room again. He hadn’t moved, but looked less ill at ease. She hurried towards him, carrying the cup steadily but dropping one of the biscuits. She put coffee and biscuits on a small table close to him, and then lifted the table nearer.

  “I’ve put plenty of sugar in,” she said. “You’ll feel a lot better after you’ve had it.”

  “I feel better now,” Micky told her, and swung his legs off the couch, as if to prove it. “I’ve a bit of a headache, that’s all. I’d better get a move on.”

  She stirred the coffee again, and handed it to him as he stood up.

  “You drink this, and have a cigarette,” she said. “I’ve squared George, and he’ll give you the chance to help Derek. But if you go to the police, I wouldn’t like to tell you what he’ll do to Derek—and to you. And maybe even the kids at home.”

  There was little traffic about when Micky Bryant left. It was after half past eight, and snow was falling as thickly as ever; it seemed to purr as it touched the snow already on the ground. He noticed a man come out of the doorway of a nearby house, and approach him, but the man wasn’t able to move as freely as he.

  He didn’t go within ten yards of the man, and didn’t give him a thought.

  The lights of occasional cars showed the snow up clearly; so did the lights of buses. He waited at a bus stop for several minutes, and one came along with Baker Street among the names written on the front. He got on, and went on top. He didn’t notice the motorcycle which turned out of the street he had come from, and chugged along behind the bus. He got off at Baker Street, and he was still in a dream, still glowing in spite of the cold.