by John Creasey
The word was passed to Roger within an hour. He was so intrigued by it that he forgot the one thing he had failed to ask Owen. In a way, it was a key question: had there been any sea shells at Mrs. Endicott’s house? There was some excuse for the failure, for he had never been busier, and he was at the special late court at half past four that afternoon, for the first hearing against the two men whose names were not yet known.
Both refused to plead, and both refused to speak; they were remanded for the usual eight days, and taken to Brixton Prison for the period of the remand. The late evening and morning newspapers carried big photographs of them, under the heading:
DO YOU KNOW THESE MEN If so, communicate at once with the nearest police station or telephone Whitehall 1212.
“While I’m waiting for results to come from this, I’ve got to decide what to do about Owen and his Mrs. E.,” Roger said to Janet, when he got home that evening. She was the one person whom he could safely tell about Owen’s story, and also the one most likely to offer some useful advice.
“There isn’t any question, you’ve got to send this Ruth E. out of London,” Janet declared briskly. She listened, because she thought she heard one of the boys approaching from the front room, where they were at their homework; was satisfied that neither was coming, and went on: “Don’t sit there saying nothing, Roger.”
“Can’t think of anything to say for once.”
“What you mean is, ought you to let her stay in Brasher’s Row, and see what happens between her and Stone or Simpson or whatever he calls himself now?” said Janet. “My pet, even for the sake of finding out who’s behind all this, you can’t take risks with that young woman. That’s no way to be a policeman. You’ve got to get her out of London.”
Roger was still pondering when a man from the Yard called to say that the cashier of a Cockell Shop in the Battersea Bridge Road had telephoned to identify the two raiders.
“Both were employed there,” the Yard caller said. “Looks as if this gang could have men planted everywhere, doesn’t it? Before we know where we are, there could be mass raids with thousands of quids being pinched every time, instead of a couple of hundred.”
XVII
SECOND VISIT
RUTH ENDICOTT was happier on the morning after her night with Cyril Orde than she had been for many, many years. She felt that they were right for each other, and had felt so almost from the first time they had met.
There was something about the smile in Cy’s brown eyes, the way his lips curved when he was looking at her, the unexpected things he was always saying, which attracted her. It did not occur to her to wonder why he had suddenly come to work at Walsh’s; in fact it did not occur to her to ask questions about him at all. She took him as he was.
While she was making the bed, she was humming to herself. His pillow was pushed up against the head panel, the indentation of his head very plain. Suddenly, exultantly, she snatched the pillow up and hugged it and kissed it—and then she tossed it away, laughing, and said aloud:
“What would he think of you, you little goop!”
She finished making the bed, ran the vacuum cleaner over the wall-to-wall carpet, and stood at the doorway looking at the wall mirror on her side of the bed. This morning, she had kept on a wrap while she had got out of bed, a queer little quirk of shyness which now amused her.
It did not occur to her that she might have done anything wrong; she was free, she owed nothing to Endicott’s memory, she had no friends, no children, no relatives who mattered, and she felt a sense of Tightness and of permanence about the friendship with Cy.
She went down the stairs in flat-heeled shoes and into the kitchen, where an hour before she had fried him bacon and eggs. She switched on the radio, made some fresh coffee, looked through the newspapers, then became absorbed in a magazine. The time slipped by. It was past twelve o’clock before she got up, stretched and yawned, scolded herself for laziness, and attacked the washing-up with a sporadic vigour which characterised much that she did.
She felt that she could laugh at the whole world.
She was putting the rinsed dishes in the drying rack when there was a knock at the front door. She hesitated before turning round. Who was that? Not the insurance man, he had called two days ago. Not the milkman, he’d been. Everything else she went out to buy.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “It’s that man Simpson.”
She went quickly along the narrow passage, but instead of opening the front door went into the tiny front room, and approached the window. Simpson’s three-wheeler van was parked outside. She didn’t want to see him, especially this morning, but suddenly decided that it wasn’t his fault that she didn’t like him; she hurried to the door. He was waiting, smiling expectantly. She felt a twinge of conscience, he looked so pleased to see her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Endicott! I was passing, and I thought I would see if there was anything you wanted?”
“Well, no, not really,” Ruth said. “If there’s anything I’ve run out of, I’ll pop into the shop.”
“It’s no trouble to deliver anything you want,” Simpson assured her. She sensed there was a kind of anxiety in him, as if he could not take no for an answer; and in a way that reminded her of how Endicott had been before she had promised to marry him. Simpson put Ms left foot forward, and whether by intent or not, stopped her from closing the door. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Endicott, I’ve got some special offers, and if you’d care to look at the list—”
She couldn’t very well be rude to the man.
She let him come in, and he ran down some lists of canned groceries and preserves which he carried with him; but she saw that he was looking round the living-room with even more interest than Cy had done. He was about the same age as Cy, and much better looking, while the beard made him quite distinctive; why was it she didn’t like him? He brushed her bare arm with the back of his hand, and glanced at her sharply; she felt a little uneasy about his being here.
“Don’t make up your mind now, just think about it,” he said at last. “If you care to order the big supplies in one go, it will save you at least two shillings in the pound. And you’ve got plenty of storage room, haven’t you?”
He looked round again, as if making sure that he did not miss anything.
“Thank you ever so much,” said Ruth. “I’ll tell you in a few days.”
“Any time, there’s no hurry,” said Simpson, and then he asked: “Don’t you find it lonely, living on your own?”
“No, I quite like it, really.”
“You don’t look the kind of person who enjoys living by herself, you look much too friendly,” Simpson declared. He had given up all pretence of trying to sell her goods, and was looking at her intently from across the living-room table, leaning against the back of the chair on which Cy had sat for his breakfast. “But then, I suppose you’ve a lot of friends.”
“No, not really,” she said idly, and then wished she had said that she had hundreds. “Well, of course, I’ve got plenty— I’m not at all lonely.”
“I suppose your husband had a lot of friends, and you see them from time to time.”
That was the moment when Ruth first began to wonder what he was really getting at. Questions about Endicott always worried her; the only time she had been able to talk freely about her husband had been last night, with Cy. This was different. This man had no right to force his way into her house and start asking questions like that.
“I suppose that man who works at the cycle shop was a friend of your husband?” said Simpson.
Ruth drew in a deep breath. Her anger must have shown in her eyes, for Simpson backed away a pace.
“No, he wasn’t. And what right have you to come in here and ask me a lot of questions? You’re being downright rude, that’s the truth of it. Get out of my house.” Ruth pointed towards the door with that touch of the dramatic which came naturally to her, and was too angry to see how startled and shaken he looked. When he simply stood gaping, she
raised her voice: “Get out of my house at once, and don’t come bothering me again!”
“No, please,” he said, chokily. “No, Mrs. Endicott, I—I didn’t mean to bother you. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t just stand there. Get out of my house!”
“I’m terribly sorry, terribly,” Simpson said. He spoke so brokenly that he almost made Ruth feel sorry for him; but she was still quivering with indignation, and did not relax. He started along the narrow passage, opened the door, and then muttered: “I really am sorry. I wouldn’t upset you for the world. I do hope that you won’t—won’t take your custom away. I promise you that I won’t make a nuisance of myself again.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said, standing squarely in the hall.
He turned and went back to his van, miserably. She closed the door with a snap, and then hurried into the front room, to see what he did. He reached the door of the van, and stood for a moment with such a look of dejection that this time she really felt sorry for him. Then he got into the van, and drove off.
Ruth felt a little guilty and uneasy when Simpson had gone; after all, he had gone to a lot of trouble, and she had seldom seen anyone look more dejected. It worried her rather until, late in the afternoon, she found a note from Cy lying on the doormat, and then all she could think about was Cy. Wasn’t he going to see her this evening? Had he regretted anything? He had written:
“There’s a very urgent rush job in the shop for tonight, ducks. Could you find me a snack supper if I come round for half an hour about eight o’clock?”
She could not have been more delighted had he sworn undying love.
He was his usual gay self during the half hour they spent together, made some sly, intimate references to last night, and said that he didn’t intend to work late too often, even for the Walsh’s. She walked back to the shop with him; the light in the workshop was on, and Walsh was also working. She returned to her house, turned on the television, and watched every programme on the commercial channel. Then, yawning and happy, she went to bed.
Next morning, there was a letter in the post—from Simpson, the grocer. He had a small, very upright hand, and his words were stiff and formal:
“Dear Mrs. Endicott,
I am extremely sorry if I caused you annoyance or embarrassment. I wish to assure you of my very deep respect and admiration.
I wish to assure you also that all my questions are purely on your behalf. I have recently suffered a great personal loss, and am only too well aware of how lonely a person can feel.
I am going to trespass on your good nature, and will call upon you again today, with certain supplies of goods at special prices.
Yours respectfully,
J. Simpson.”
In a way it made her want to laugh; in another, to cry. But she couldn’t refuse to see the man after a letter like that.
When he arrived, he was most polite and anxious not to cause offence, and Ruth was equally polite. She had just made some coffee, and out of natural good nature, offered him a cup. He accepted eagerly, and she went into the kitchen.
It was by sheer chance that she came away before the coffee was made, and saw him bending over her husband’s desk, with a drawer open. She was so angry that she actually ran at him, striking at his arm—and she had never seen a man more taken aback. He stammered apologies, and allowed her to bustle him along the passage and outside. He seemed to stagger before he reached his van, but recovered, got in, and drove off.
Then she saw another man sitting in a car across the road, hidden until then by the van. It was the fattish man who had come to see her just after her husband’s murder.
All thought of Simpson vanished from Ruth’s mind. She stood rigid with the kind of fear which she had almost forgotten. The man watched the van as it moved along the street, and then turned his head and looked across at this house.
Ruth began to breathe heavily. She saw his expression, that nasty smile, the smile which had terrified her. She thought: “Cy!” and her mind began to work on one thought only: the thought of escape from this man. She didn’t want to see him again, she didn’t want to talk to him. Why was he here? She felt almost hypnotised as she stood by the window, dreading the moment when he would come across the road towards her, but he didn’t move. She moistened her lips, and turned away from the window; at first it needed a great physical effort. She reached the passage and ran up the stairs and into her bedroom, kicked off her house shoes and put on others, slapped a small hat on the side of her head and pushed a redheaded pin through it, and put on a light summer coat. All she could think about was seeing Cy, telling him that she was frightened of this man.
She looked out of the window; he was walking along the street.
She thought: “It’s all right, he’s going,” and yet her mood of panic did not go, that single glimpse of him had frightened her so much. She grabbed her handbag, and hurried down the stairs, turned towards the kitchen and picked up a shopping basket.
Why had this man come back? Why had Simpson come and asked questions about her dead husband? She remembered all the questions which the man across the road had asked her, how he had warned her not to talk about his call, or about her husband’s activities—and he had been nervous in case she talked to the police.
Was Simpson a policeman?
She opened the front door, and stepped out, glancing right and left, half afraid that she would see the man near the house and on this side of the street. He was nowhere in sight.
She slammed the door behind her, feeling rather silly with relief. It might have been coincidence. At heart she believed that it had not been, though; there must be some reason for the man’s return—and the reason seemed to be connected with the new grocer. She had never liked that man with the beard. If he was going to get her into trouble, she would hate him.
She turned right, away from the shop, but the quickest way to the Whitechapel Road, and Walsh’s place. It was a quarter to one. She would pop in to see Cy about her bicycle, any excuse would do, and if he were alone in the shop she would tell him what had happened and ask his help; she felt so sure that she could rely on that.
She saw Mrs. Walsh, a short, dumpy, dark-haired woman, enormous with child, at the counter. Her heart dropped.
“Well, no, Mrs. Endicott,” said Mrs. Walsh, “Mr. Orde’s asked for an extra hour off today, and he went to lunch early— he’s got some relatives up from the country, he says. But he’ll be back by half past two, he promised me. Can you come back, if it’s something only he knows about? My husband’s in the workshop, but . . .”
“It isn’t important, really,” Ruth said. “Any time will do.”
She left the shop, feeling rather foolish, went along the main street, bought some sausages and a piece of frying steak from a butcher who did not close for the lunch-hour, and some apples and Jaffa oranges from a barrow boy. Then she started back for home. Her panic had subsided, and she was half inclined to laugh at herself.
She opened the front door with her key, stepped inside, closed the door—and then screamed.
The fat man who so frightened her had stepped out of the front room, within arm’s reach.
XVII
LITTLE JOURNEY
“I SHOULDN’T make a noise like that again, or you’ll really get hurt,” said the plumpish man. “Come here, Ruthie.”
She didn’t move.
“Ruthie, I told you to come here,” the man said, and moved towards her. In panic, she swung round and snatched at the handle of the door, but before she could turn it, the man was at her back. She felt his hands slide round her neck, felt the strength of his fingers on her windpipe and the pressure of his thumbs at the back of her neck—awful, agonising, even worse because she couldn’t breathe. He was forcing her back against him at the same time, and she could feel hot breath on her hair.
She tried to struggle and kick, but could hardly move.
She tried desperately to draw breath, but could not; all that hap
pened was a tightening band round her breast, great pressure there, at her eyes, at her forehead and at her ears, which seemed to get tighter and tighter. She believed he was going to kill her. She felt a kind of darkness descending and thought it was the darkness of death.
Then he eased the pressure.
She reeled away from him, and leaned against the wall, taking in great gulps of air, hardly able to realise what had happened. Her neck hurt. Her lungs hurt. She could not see, because there was such a mist in front of her eyes.
The man said something, but she did not know what it was. She felt a touch on her shoulder and tried to shrink away, but the man shifted his grip, took her arm and forced her to turn round, then made her walk in front of him into the living-room. The searing breaths which racked her body echoed, quivering, about the walls. He let her go, and she supported herself against the table, then edged round towards her chair and collapsed into it. Her breathing became easier, but her fear no less.
Gradually, the round head and smooth shoulders took on shape and clarity. Ruth’s breathing was almost back to normal. The man held something out towards her, and she saw that it was a drink. She took it, her fingers trembling, sipped, then drank it down; it was a strong whisky and soda. It brought tears to her eyes, and the effort of swallowing hurt. She leaned back in the chair, seeing the man sitting on a corner of the table and watching her from narrowed eyes.
“Ruthie,” he said, “you’ve got to tell me all about your love life.”
She didn’t answer.
“And if you tell me the truth you’ll be all right,” the man said. “If you lie to me, you’ll get hurt, Ruthie. You’ll get hurt, and then you’ll go on a little journey, the kind of little journey that your poor hubby went on. Do you get me?”
She managed to nod her head.
“Now who’s the all-conquering boy friend, Ruthie? Who’s the lug you slept with last night?”
