by John Creasey
“The reports aren’t very hopeful.”
“After this lot, they wouldn’t be,” Appleby declared. “The man must have gone mad. I’ll go and have a look at her, but I don’t mind admitting that there isn’t much I can tell you from this. Not much that you don’t know, anyhow. She was coming out of the back room, probably trying to take the man by surprise—just about here, I should say.” Appleby moved to the right, stepping clear of the glutinous pool of syrup. “See?”
Roger saw a few splashes of syrup, still oozing slowly downwards, on the door jamb; he also saw several little globules of the gooey stuff on some packets of soap powder and detergents.
“No, I don’t see,” he said.
“The chap was at the till, obviously,” declared Appleby. “That’s where she would surprise him. You can see where he turned round, see where the golden syrup is on display—he must have been within hands’ reach of those. He threw one, that’s when he caught his finger-nail in the ridge round the lid. The tin caught the woman in the face, ricocheted off, banged into the shelf here—see the mark?—and that’s what forced the lid off. Those treacle tin lids are stuck on pretty tight, they need a lot of levering, or else a sharp knock. So this was a glancing blow. The lid came off, the syrup sprayed the soaps and things and the door, then fell where it is now.”
As he talked, Appleby kept pointing; to marks on the floor and on the wall, and to the different packets of goods. Roger was aware of a strange atmosphere in the shop. One after another, Bellew’s men stopped what they were doing, and watched the pathologist. Now Appleby’s stammer had quite gone, and his clear-cut assertions seemed to be borne out by all the evidence available. When he stopped, there was silence. He glanced at Bellew, gave a brief smile, and said:
“W-w-w-what have I g-g-g-got wrong, Superintendent.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had time to work it out,” said Bellew, heavily. “What about the next tin?”
“The w-w-w-what? Oh, the second tin. He used that as a hammer.” Appleby pointed to a tin at the side of the counter. “Couldn’t be any other explanation. Blood all round the bottom rim. Used the bottom of it, probably a tin turned upside down when he grabbed the first one and knocked the pile over. You can see hairs, skin and even bone fragments on the bottom rim. Shouldn’t think he was all that powerful a man— no need to keep hitting her as he did, if he were. Got any fingerprints?”
“We think so,” Bellew said.
“Fat lot of use thinking so,” grumbled Appleby. “Well, I-I-I-I’ll trot along to the hospital, look her over, and then get back home.” He smiled at Roger. “M-m-m-my wife would hate anybody who took me away from home on our wedding anniversary. In b-b-bad enough already, I forgot it until I was reminded. You’ll ph-ph-phone me at home, after nine-thirty, say. Right?”
“Yes, Doc,” Roger said, humbly.
“Or come and s-s-s-see me,” suggested Appleby, with a broad grin. “That m-m-might get me in good. Any woman would b-b-be happy to see a fine, handsome, upstanding young chap like you”
They all laughed.
“He takes the biscuit,” Bellew remarked, when Appleby had left. “One look, and he tells you exactly what happened. Think he’s right?”
“I’ve only known him wrong once,” Roger said, “and I’ve often done my damnedest to trip him up. He was fooled when a hit and run driver was at the wheel of a car with a left hand drive. Now, what we want are those prints.” He went to the till, and studied the grey fingerprint powder marks on it; these showed up as the faint outlines of several fingers. He opened his own case, took out his magnifying glass, and bent down over the three tins; they were sticky with syrup tinged with blood, and the syrup had almost certainly oozed in such a way that all the prints had been blurred out of recognition. “We want just one clear one,” he said. “One thing’s certain—he didn’t wear gloves.”
“Sounds to me like one of those bloody amateurs,” said Bellew.
“Look here,” said Roger, “this tin’s fairly clean on the underside. If we pick it up with a pair of calipers, we might be able to get photographs of any prints underneath. Who’s your man?”
“Pardy!” called Bellew, to one of his men. “Bring your bag of tricks over here.”
Ten minutes later, they had a good photograph of three prints, two of which coincided with smears found on the till and with a faint print found on a one pound note which had lodged in a basket of special-offer sardines near the door. Everything they discovered seemed to bear out Dan Appleby’s theory, and the presence of the little pathologist was still felt when, an hour afterwards, the police had photographed everything they wanted.
By then, it was eight o’clock. Roger was hungry, and the heat was still sticky; now that he was able to relax, he felt it close about him. He lit a cigarette from Bellew’s lighter, and as he did so, a policeman appeared at the doorway.
“Message for you, Mr. West.”
“What is it?”
“It’s from the hospital, sir.”
“How is she?”
“She’s gone,” the policeman announced, and immediately there was a gasp from the crowd outside, an oath from an unseen man, and tightening lips among the policemen still on duty.
“The husband’s on his way to his mother’s place,” the policeman went on. “That’s 17, River View Crescent, Lambeth, Mr. West—on this side of the river, between Battersea and Lambeth.”
“So we’ll soon find out all there is to know about Mrs. S. senior,” Bellew said. “Runs a hostel of sorts, I’m told.”
“Of sorts?”
“Big place, rather like a Youth Hostel—place where business people can get reasonably priced rooms and cheap food,” explained Bellew. “It’s made up of several converted houses.”
In fact River View Hostel occupied most of a crescent of four storey houses, a little way from the Thames, but with nothing between it and the Embankment, so that all the front and most of the side rooms had a view of the river. The old-fashioned, Victorian facade of weathered red brick led Roger to expect high ceilings, big doors, a curiously depressing gloom of staircases and passages, but everything had been recently decorated, and the place was obviously well-maintained. There was certainly nothing gloomy or depressing about the big room on the fourth floor where Mrs. Stone was with her son. It was beautifully appointed, and somehow unexpectedly opulent here, although it suited this petite, well-dressed, well-groomed woman.
On the way over, one of Bellew’s men had told Roger that Mrs. Stone was the manager of the hostel, which had nearly a hundred rooms, many of which were occupied by business men and women; and half of them had kitchens.
“Lot of Cockells Stores’ managers live there,” the man had said.
Jim Stone was standing by the window, looking over the river, when Roger went in; and he seemed hardly aware of Roger’s presence.
“I’ve got to avenge her,” he said in a hard voice. “I won’t be able to rest until I’ve killed the devil.”
“Jim, it’s no use talking like that,” Mrs. Stone protested, with forced calm. “It won’t help to bring Mabel back. Will it, Inspector?”
“I tell you I’ve got to avenge her.”
“Mr. Stone,” Roger said, very quietly, “there is a way in which you can help. The law will punish the man once we’ve caught him—and from what you’ve told me, you might be able to help to identify him positively. I need the clearest possible description of anyone you saw leaving the street, and it must be accurate in every detail.”
“But how can you be sure—?” began the small woman.
Roger motioned her to silence. She opened her mouth again as if to protest, then moved back, obviously acknowledging that he might be talking sense. Stone was staring into Roger’s eyes, and Roger had never seen greater pain in a man’s face, or deeper anguish in a man’s eyes.
Stone was in the late twenties or early thirties. He was tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking in a rather odd way—his nose was a little on one si
de, his eyes were deep set and the sockets seemed to be chiselled, adding to the look of anguish. The square chin had a pronounced cleft, often an illusory guide to character. Unexpectedly his voice was public school, unusual for a back street grocer.
“There was a man. I only just saw him when he looked round,” he said. “He was small, and he had a pointed nose, that’s all I’m sure of. But—I’ll never forget him.”
“Describing the face of a man you saw fifty yards away isn’t always easy,” Roger said, “but if you can tell us what clothes he was wearing, what kind of figure he had, whether you noticed any peculiarity about his walk—anything of that kind can help us to find others who might have seen him when he reached the High Street. We had two policemen on duty about that time, near the cinema—one of them might be able to pick up the description and help us to trace the man. Don’t make any mistake, there’s a great deal that you can do to help us find him, and if he’s the man . . .”
“You won’t hang him,” Stone said, flatly. “Not these days.”
“Murder in the course of robbery is a capital charge,” Roger reminded him.
“They’re all fools,” Stone said. “They’ll let him off. I’d like to deal with him myself.”
“You can’t, Mr. Stone,” Roger said, “unless you already have some idea who it is.”
Stone stared, as if uncomprehending, then looked startled. His mother moved forward.
“What was that remark supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“Has Mr. Stone any enemies? Had Mrs. Stone—?”
“I’ve told you already, no, she hadn’t,” said Stone, slowly. “There was no reason in the world why anyone should hurt Mabel. She was the kindest person alive.” His voice didn’t break, but Roger saw the woman turn away, as if to hide her feelings. “And the man who killed her has got to die, too. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to kill him.”
“Jim, don’t talk like that,” said his mother huskily.
“I’m going to find him, and I’m going to kill him, if it takes me the rest of my life,” Stone declared. “It isn’t any use trying to fool me,” he went on to Roger. “It’s no use talking to me about the law. I’m going to find him.”
“Inspector—” the woman began.
“In your son’s position I would feel exactly the same,” Roger said. “And after what we’ve seen, there’s hardly a man on the Force who wouldn’t like to choke the life out of this killer. Mr. Stone, I must be on my way. If there’s anything at all I can do, please telephone me.”
He turned to the door of an apartment with one long, lovely room overlooking the river. There was still sufficient light to show the couples walking, and old men strolling, and dogs lolloping and youths skylarking. Roger left Stone standing erect and silent, while Stone’s mother came hurrying after him.
“Inspector, what shall I do with him?” she asked. “I’ve never known him like this. He means it, can’t you see that? He means what he says.”
“If we argue with him now it will only make him stubborn,” Roger said. “We need your help too, Mrs. Stone. He won’t tell me but he may tell you exactly what this man looked like. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Meanwhile if I were you I wouldn’t argue too much, I’d just go along with him. That can’t do any harm,” Roger went on, reassuringly. “He’ll never find the man by himself; the talk is just a safety valve.”
“I hope you’re right,” the woman said. “When do you think the shop can be opened again?”
“We should be through by the morning,” Roger said. The question jarred, and yet was understandable, especially when Stone’s mother went on:
“My son will be better when he’s got something to do. I think it would drive him mad if he hung about here doing nothing. He—” she broke off. “Help him all you can, Inspector, won’t you?”
“In every way we can,” Roger promised. “I’m going straight to Scotland Yard now, in the hope of getting some news.”
IV
ROBBERIES BY THE DOZEN
THERE was no news about the Stone murder at the Yard, but there was a pencilled message on Roger’s desk: “Dr. Appleby rang, and said what about it?” There was also a fairly lengthy message from Bellew. Roger read this, and looked at his watch; it was half past ten. He smiled wryly, and went down to his car. He was still hungry, although he had had a sandwich and a coffee at the Clapham Police Station
Instead of going home, he headed for the St. John’s Wood area, and within fifteen minutes he was turning into the front garden of the house where Dan Appleby had a flat. Roger had never been here, but had passed by when driving with the pathologist; Appleby had pointed to the window several times, so Roger knew that it was on the third floor at the front.
Lights shone at several windows.
He went into the fairly modern house, found the hallway well-decorated and newly painted, and an automatic lift waiting. The lighting was bright. The board announced: “Dr. D. F. Appleby, M.D., Apartment 5.” The lift moved even more slowly than the one at the Yard, yet stopped with a jolt. The black-painted door of No. 5 was immediately opposite. Roger pressed the bell, and heard it ring some distance inside the flat.
There was no immediate response, and he began to wonder whether the blaze of lights had fooled him; he had assumed from it that no intimate celebration of the anniversary was preoccupying the Applebys. He was about to ring again when footsteps sounded. Appleby opened the door, wearing only a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of pale-coloured slacks. His hair was slightly dishevelled.
“M-my w-w-w-wife hates you even more,” he said. “C-c-come on in.”
Roger followed him in.
“T-t-t-ten minutes later and we’d have gone to bed,” said Appleby. “That room on the right.” He thrust the door wide open, and Roger stepped into a room rather like Mrs. Stone’s, but furnished in more modern fashion, and quite beautifully appointed. Standing near the fireplace was a woman, half a head taller than Appleby. She wore a close-fitting house-coat of sapphire blue, high at the neck, with long sleeves. The light fell in such a way that her features showed up vividly; she was exceptionally good-looking. Dark as her husband was fair, she had deep blue eyes, a clear complexion and the kind of figure which seemed to promise even when it was in repose. Roger was so taken aback that he almost gaped.
“H-here’s the big blonde beast,” Dan Appleby said. “Roger West, placate my wife for me. She hasn’t forgiven me for being out most of the evening.” He gave his wife a charming smile. “Dot, this is the man you keep reading about, Handsome West of the Yard.”
Mrs. Appleby held out her hand, and said: “I don’t know what is worse, having to live with him or having to work with him.” Her hand was warm but dry. Her gaze was frank and appraising. At first sight it was impossible to imagine what she had seen in Dan Appleby to marry him.
“Living with him, I’m sure,” Roger said. “After all, I can resign.”
Appleby laughed. “That’ll be the day. Had any dinner?”
“Yes, thanks, I—”
“Man’s a liar,” Appleby said to his wife. “I telephoned Bellew, who said the most he’d had was a boiled beef sandwich. Think you could rustle up some of that salmon, Dot?”
“No, really—” Roger began.
Mrs. Appleby laughed. “Don’t give it a thought. I have to feed my husband whenever he’s got time to put on a bib. I won’t be five minutes.” She moved towards the door, and Roger found himself almost hypnotised, watching her until she went out and the door closed.
“Ah-hem, don’t they say?” said Appleby.
Roger grinned, colouring slightly.
“And the marvel is, she puts up with me,” went on Appleby. “What will you have? We’ve nearly everything.”
“A whisky and soda would be just right.”
“I shall have gin,” said Appleby. “Don’t know what I like about the damned stuff, but I do. N-n-now, Handsome.” He went towards a small flat-topped cabinet where a dozen bottles and some gl
asses were on show. “I don’t think I’ve anything to add to what I said in the shop. No doubt that second treacle tin was used as a hammer. You can tell the husband that the first or at worst the second blow knocked Mrs. Stone unconscious. No need to say there was a miscarriage. What’s he like?”
“Full of vengeance,” Roger said, and took a glass which had plenty of whisky in it; Appleby squirted in a splash of soda. “Fill it up, will you?” He waited. “And at the moment he means it.”
“Any idea who the killer was?”
“We’ve some prints but they aren’t in Records,” said Roger. “I’d hoped we’d have some luck.”
“Amateur, then?”
Roger said: “Well, it almost looks like it. No gloves, and he left a lot of prints behind, but even an old lag can get careless. Thing is, he needn’t have killed her if he’d worn a mask or a scarf over his face. The fact that he killed suggests that she would have recognised him again.”
“Friend of the family, do you mean?”
“I don’t yet know what I mean,” Roger said.
Appleby sipped his drink; Roger drank half of his at one go-
“What’s on your mind?” Appleby asked.
“Shop robberies,” answered Roger, heavily. “Bellew checked tonight, and left a message at the Yard. He remembered a half-dozen, but in fact they’ve had eleven in the Clap-ham area in the past three months. I picked up some figures at the Yard, too. There have been at least a hundred similar robberies in the past three months in the Metropolitan area, and I daresay that when we’ve added them all up, it will come to nearer two hundred.”
“How many with violence?”
Roger said: “That’s what worries me.”
“Worries me, too,” said Appleby. “How many?”
“I know of twelve, but nothing like this case. Usually the thieves wore masks, to make sure they weren’t recognised. That’s what makes this one different—as if the chap didn’t care if he was recognised or not.”
