by John Creasey
Micky was still on the ground.
He kicked the bicycle free, and lay on his back, and Sammy seemed to think that he was stunned, for he didn’t slacken his pace, just came on as if one smashing blow would be enough.
Micky shot out his foot.
Sammy saw it, and dodged to one side. He slipped in the snow. One moment he had been a rushing menacing figure, and the next he was just a lout staggering about, arms waving as he tried to keep his balance. The weapon glinted in the light, and Micky knew that it was metal, guessed that it was an iron bar. He scrambled desperately to his feet, and tore at his coat to get the knife. Before he had it out, Sammy recovered. Iron bar raised, he was only a couple of yards in front of Micky. He was gasping for breath; he wore a scarf over his face, with slits for the eyes and another for the mouth. He wore a knitted balaclava helmet, too, which made him look almost like a hooded creature from another world.
Micky touched the knife.
Sammy leapt, arm swinging.
Micky swayed right, deceived the other, and darted towards the left. He got his knife out, in the same moment. He heard the swish of the iron bar. Snow clogged his shoes. At any other time it would have been easy, but he just couldn’t move fast enough. But he had the knife, and turned to face Sammy.
He kicked into a drift, and pitched forward.
One moment there was a fifty fifty chance; next, he was half buried in soft, powdery snow, and the knife dropped from his fingers. He pictured Sammy smashing at his head with the iron bar, and raised his own arms and folded them over his head. The weapon smashed down on his left arm. The pain made him cry out. Fear gave him new strength. He squirmed round, just able to see the man holding the weapon high, and he flung his arm up.
He caught the other’s wrist.
The blow was checked in mid-air, and they made a kind of tableau, with Micky on his back, head and shoulders off the snow, right hand thrust upwards like a ramrod, and Sammy struggling desperately to get free.
He kicked savagely.
Micky felt the kick in his ribs, but snow on the cap of the other’s boot saved him from its full force. The kick made the other overbalance, and Micky had a chance which wasn’t likely to come again. He tightened his grip on Sammy’s wrist, and twisted. He heard the other squeal, and saw him stagger. Then Sammy collapsed in the snow, falling across Micky’s legs. Micky fought to get himself free, fought to draw himself to safety, but couldn’t. The other had squirmed round in turn.
He had lost his weapon, but his hands were at Micky’s throat.
Micky could hear his harsh, squeaky breathing.
Micky was lying on his back, with the other on top of him, and they struggled for what seemed age long time. The grip at Micky’s neck was getting tighter and tighter, and he could feel the constriction at his lungs. He remembered that this had happened to May, that she nearly had been strangled. He kept the muscles of his neck as taut as he could, and tried desperately to breathe but could only draw a wheezy breath. The tightness at his lungs was getting more painful. There were lights in front of his eyes, white and red specks which kept moving about. There was pain at his heart and pain at his neck and pain at his ears and his eyes. His own right hand was just beneath the other man’s chin; he was thrusting upwards as hard as he could; only that was preventing the other from finishing him off, but – Sammy was trying to kill him. Kill him, then get the key –
Had something like this happened to Derek?
It had, to his father.
In the awful struggle, Micky had forgotten George. Recollection brought an onrush of new fear. He couldn’t last much longer, even against Sammy, who had managed to get his weight on Micky’s arm; his elbow was beginning to bend.
Micky seemed to gather up his whole body, and heave upwards, his hand at Sammy’s chin and all his weight behind that one effort. He felt a screaming pain at his shoulder, and he also felt despair.
But a miracle happened.
The weight eased, and he pushed harder.
Sammy sagged back. The grip at Micky’s throat slackened. The pains faded. Micky pushed again, and the other toppled to one side and then fell sluggishly into the snow. He didn’t move. It was almost impossible to believe but it was true; Sammy lay still in the snow, in a peculiar position, and with his head at a strange angle, not straight on his neck.
There were pains and strange noises in Micky’s head. He tried to get up, only to drop back again, but it didn’t matter.
Where was George? That other, falling, man? The woman?
Micky did not know how long he lay there, gasping for breath. Every moment he expected Sammy to get up and start again; or big George to come.
Micky got up, slowly, feeling sick.
He stood swaying, with his feet wide apart. He couldn’t go through that again; he must find his knife. Pity he hadn’t a gun. In his weakness, he knew that he would be no match for George; or for anyone. The dream of saving Derek had faded in the sick realization that he’d been a crazy fool.
He must go to the police.
Why wasn’t George here? Who was the man who had fallen into the snow?
He wasn’t there now; George must have taken him away.
Micky looked back at Sammy, who hadn’t moved. Funny. His scarf was still in position, but the eyeholes had slipped down, his – his nose was poking through one of them.
Funny!
Then Micky noticed the position of his head and the neck. He realised what had happened, that it wasn’t funny at all.
His heart was beating heavily and painfully. Movement was difficult, and he couldn’t control his feet in this damned snow.
He forced himself to move more quickly, and felt better. He picked the bicycle up and walked towards the gate, beginning to shiver, as much with reaction as with the cold; his body was warm, but his hands were lumps of ice. He had to lean against one of the gateposts. If only someone would come along. What wouldn’t he give for the sight of a copper! Fool, fool, fool!
He did not realise that he was terribly frightened, as he moved away from the gate.
Then a car turned the corner.
At first, he couldn’t believe it, but there it was, the sidelights showing clearly against the whiteness; then the headlights were switched on as the car came crunching steadily over the frozen snow. Here was help!
The car was coming slowly, its engine loud. Micky raised a hand, but he felt sure that the man had seen him. Why, the car was turning this way!
The car was turning this way, and coming faster.
Fear exploded into terror.
“No!” screamed Micky. “No!”
He knew George was in that car.
He turned and ran, but was caught in the beam of headlights and his own shadow was black and hideous against the snow. He slipped, gasped in dread, recovered – and then kicked against Sammy’s body.
He couldn’t save himself from falling, but he was up in a flash, with that awful light on him. If only he could get to the wall and climb over.
He leaped for the wall, scrambled to the top, and fell backwards. He didn’t have a chance, now, but at least he had saved himself from being crushed. He saw other shadows. The car had stopped. A large man was rushing from the car. George.
Micky felt a blow on the head, and fell. He was vaguely aware of other lights, far off, and a man’s hands at his body, searching – searching for the key, that accursed key.
Roger West woke a little after seven o’clock, and wondered why everything seemed so light, for mornings were dark at this time of the year. Then he realised that light from the street lamps was reflected from the snow; so was the light from a nearby window.
The boys, of course.
He grinned.
Janet stirred, but was still asleep. Roger pushed the bedclothes back and got out of bed, yawned, dragged on his dressing gown, and went out. The boys were talking in undertones, and their door was tightly closed. He didn’t let them know that he was coming, but opened the door v
ery stealthily.
They were standing by the open window, wearing only pyjamas. Scoopy had his slippers on; Richard was barefooted. Roger heard a giggle, and saw Scoopy draw his hand back. He hurled a snowball out.
“Whose window are you after?” Roger asked.
They both spun round.
There was a moment’s startled silence; then Richard smiled and said perkily: “Hallo, Dad, it didn’t turn to rain.”
“I’ll turn you to rain if there’s any more of this nonsense,” Roger said. “Shut the window, put some clothes on, and try to get some sense into your thick heads—that’s the way to catch cold and if you catch one, you’ll keep everyone awake at night with your coughing, Scoop. If you’re still young enough to want to play with the snow, put on your old coats, old gloves and Wellingtons, and throw the snowballs at each other.”
Before he had finished, Scoopy was streaking for the clothes, neatly folded on a chair by the side of his bed.
Richard was jumping up and down, in delight. “Oo, Dad, may we?”
“If your mother had caught you doing that she would probably have made you stay in bed for the rest of the day,” Roger said. “Don’t make too much noise, she’s asleep.” He went out, looking at the letter box as he walked down the stairs. He was still yawning. The newspapers weren’t poking through; everything was likely to be late in this weather. He went into the kitchen, put on a kettle and, instead of his morning glance through the newspapers to find out how things were in crime, he went to the telephone in the front room, and called the Yard.
The Night Duty Superintendent said brightly: “So you wake up some mornings … Not much in for you yet, but I haven’t heard from St John’s Wood yet. Let’s see—young Lothario Micky Bryant left his home at 12.34 last night, on his bicycle, said he’d got a girl friend and don’t tell his Mum. No report that he’s back yet. Like me to ring them and call you back?”
“I’ll call them,” Roger said, slowly.
He didn’t like it at all. Micky Bryant seemed about the last one in the world to spend a night with a girl, as things were at home.
Roger rang the Fulham Station, and while he was holding on, he heard Richard come down the stairs, humming. Then a door slammed. Next, the Fulham Night Duty sergeant said: “Got no report that young Bryant returned, sir, but King—that’s the officer who reported him leaving—is still in Clapp Street. Shall I go and send a man to find out what happened?”
“What time’s King due to be relieved?”
“Eight o’clock, sir.”
“Send a man,” decided Roger, “and ring me back quickly, will you?”
He was frowning when he went into the kitchen. He could hear the boys laughing out in the garden – and then he scowled; one of them had turned the kettle out, instead of turning it down. He picked it up, and found it empty.
His eyes lit up.
“Bless ’em,” he said, “they’ve made the tea.” He poured out a cup of tea, sipped it slowly; and then heard a banging sound from above his head. Janet was awake. He took the tray upstairs, and saw her lying snug, hair dark and untidy against the pillow. He tossed her a bed jacket and watched her sit up, answered her sleepy questions about the snow, the boys, how he had slept; he drank the tea with lazy enjoyment – and the telephone bell rang. He picked up the instrument by the bedside.
“West speaking.”
“Fulham Station, sir, reporting as promised. There’s no report that young Bryant got back to the house, neither from King or Sharpies—Sharpies was at the back. The boy’s bicycle isn’t in the yard or in the porch where it was last night”
Roger said, very softly: “Damn, oh damn,” fell silent for a moment, and then went on: “Right, thanks. I’ll go over to Clapp Street”
He rang the hospital, and got a good report on Kilby. Something on the credit side, he thought bitterly. If Micky Bryant was hurt –
What the hell would his mother feel?
Mrs Bryant had obviously been up for some time when Roger arrived. She was dressed, but hadn’t a dust cap or the apron on; she wore a black sweater and skirt and a black and white scarf; and the brightness of the morning showed him how clear and blue were her eyes. She was surprised to see him, just as she had been before, but she didn’t keep him waiting on the porch.
So she hadn’t missed Micky.
One of the children upstairs was shouting, and another giggling. He recognised the tone; they were on the edge of a quarrel, when laughter would turn to tears, and parents either suffered nervous tension or, if they were lucky, hardly noticed the noise.
Mrs Bryant ushered him into the bravely decorated front room.
“Is it bad news of Derek?” she asked, very quietly.
“No,” said Roger, “there’s still no word. Do you know where Micky is?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs Bryant said. “He’s upstairs in his bed.”
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t answer.
He judged from that that she wasn’t absolutely sure, that she had taken it for granted that her son was in his room. She turned and hurried out of the room and up the stairs, with Roger following. She had nice legs, neat, young looking ankles. Roger watched from the door of the stairs, heard her move sharply across the little landing and then the squeak of a door.
Silence.
It lasted for a long time.
Roger started up the stairs. Mrs Bryant came towards him when he reached the landing, and the old, familiar pallor was back.
“I’d no idea he’d gone out,” she said, in a stony voice.
“Have you any idea where he might have gone?”
She said: “No. No, none at all.”
Roger said nothing, just watched her. He hated the need for adding to her anxiety, but found himself wondering again whether she had lied to him before this morning; and whether she was lying now. Her eyes glittered so.
“Has he a girl friend?” Roger asked.
“No—no one he would visit at that hour, anyhow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why—why did you think—”
He told her of Micky’s sortie, and of his pleading with a policeman.
The threatened uproar started in the other room – shrieking and crying, and “I hate you, I hate you!” time and time again. It might have been a thousand miles away.
Mrs Bryant was frightened, and Roger sensed that she was more vulnerable than at any time since he had known her.
“Mrs Bryant,” he said, “this is a most united family, and one I like very much, but inexplicable and ugly things have happened. We’ve never discovered why your husband was killed. We don’t know what Miss Harrison’s assailant was after. If we knew the motive for the murder or the breaking and entering, we might be able to prevent more trouble. We’ve reason to believe that the mystery is connected with the Post Office, and it might be extremely grave. If there is anything at all you can tell us, to keep it back would be failing in your duty to your children as well as to the community.”
He stopped.
Had it been too formal? Pompous? Would that approach have been right for Bryant but not for her?
Her eyes burned.
“I can well believe that you and either of the elder children would do anything out of a sense of loyalty to Mr Bryant,” Roger went on, “but—”
She cried: “Please don’t go on!”
One child was crying and another was soothing; in another world.
“I don’t know of any reason why my husband should have been murdered and I don’t know any reason why Micky should be out all night, but—I came across something yesterday which might be what that thief wanted.” Mrs Bryant turned towards the bedroom door. “I’ll show it to you. It was hidden among our—our personal papers and souvenirs. Tom must have put it there. I don’t know why and I don’t know what key it is.”
Roger echoed sharply: “Key?”
“Yes,” she said.
The bed had been t
urned back, and, in spite of the bitter cold, a window had been flung wide open; it was almost as cold in the bedroom as it was out in the street. There were the photographs and the little personal touches inseparable from the home – and the cardboard box. She took it down and rummaged through some papers and oddments.
She stopped.
Soon, she moved the papers aside more carefully and Roger heard her catch her breath. She didn’t need to tell him that the key was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Mad Morning
Roger’s car crunched over the slush outside the Yard’s main steps, and he stopped a foot from the wall. The middle of the yard was almost clear of snow, after salt and gravel had been spread, but the sides were piled high, and there were patches of pure white. The sky was still overcast, threatening more snow. A policeman was busy with a shovel on the steps of the CID building.
Roger got out, and opened the door for Mrs Bryant.
She had said very little since she had discovered that the key was missing. The ever-ready Mrs Trentham had come to the rescue; now, while the children were being given their breakfast, Mrs Bryant stepped out of the car and looked up at the massive grey building.
“First time you’ve visited us, isn’t it?” Roger asked, and took her arm as they walked over some slush towards the steps. “It’s better going here,” he went on. “I’ll be able to tell you in five minutes whether there’s any news of Micky or Derek.”
She didn’t speak.
“What I told you in the car, I meant,” Roger said, as they neared the top of the steps. A gust of wind cut over from the river, and he shivered in the teeth of it, and hustled Mrs Bryant into the overheated hall. “No one is going to blame you for anything. If your husband was involved with criminals, which I think most unlikely, I’ll do my best to keep his name free from scandal. We’ll try to help Micky, too, whether he’s in a scrape or not. And there’s only one reason why I’ve brought you here: to try to identify the key you saw in that box.”
They were walking towards the lift.
“I understand,” Mrs Bryant said in a low voice, “and you’re very good.”
