The Day of Disaster

by John Creasey

  ‘What will who say?’ demanded Hammond sharply.

  ‘Father.’ She stopped looking about her and turned her face towards him. Her voice rose upwards to an hysterical pitch. ‘Give it back; you’ve got to give it back!’ When he did not speak she half-rose from her chair, sank down again and then with a great effort stood up and jumped towards him, striking out with small, clenched fists. ‘Where is it, what have you done with it?’

  She collapsed as he fended off her blows; falling face downwards.

  Mike Errol pushed open the door.

  ‘Now, now,’ he said soothingly. ‘Here’s the tea. And look——’

  ‘What we found,’ put in Mark, just behind him.

  ‘In the larder,’ finished Mike, holding out a red leather handbag. ‘Could this be Hilary’s?’

  7

  Red Leather Handbag

  Hammond stared at the girl, and the girl stared at the handbag like one who was seeing undreamed-of terrors. Her manner made him feel not only puzzled but a little alarmed.

  Mike went on as if there was nothing unusual in the situation.

  ‘You must have been hungry,’ he said, ‘and put it down while ferreting. It is yours, I suppose?’

  ‘Y—yes,’ she said.

  Slowly she took it from the tray, and unfastened the clasp. Lipstick, powder compact, hair-grips, a pencil, a handkerchief, a mesh purse, were upturned in an untidy heap.

  Then she stopped.

  ‘It’s gone,’ she said dully, ‘it’s gone.’

  ‘It may be somewhere about,’ said Hammond with an effort. ‘If you’ll tell us what it is——’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t! What will he say?’ It took no great effort of imagination to see that she was frightened of her father; from what Hammond remembered of Crayshaw, he was a man who inspired fright in a great number of people.

  Mike put the tray down, and said practically: ‘We may as well dispense tea now that it’s made. Will you have a cup, Bruce?’

  Bruce nodded; carefully Mike Errol filled four cups. Mark was looking at Hilary with puzzled eyes, while Hammond watched her hand shaking. She took a few painful gulps of tea, then pushed the cup away.

  ‘Will you take me home, please? He’d better know.’

  ‘What is it you’ve lost?’ Hammond demanded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said lifelessly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Hammond looked at the Errols and judged from their expression that they were thinking it would probably be wise to do as the girl asked. He did not think it likely that she would be persuaded to exchange confidences, but he could at least learn if she were being watched.

  His mind made up to that, Hammond rose quickly. ‘Mike, will you come with me? If you’ll stay here, Mark, in case anything else happens, it’ll be useful.’ He saw Mark Errol scowl, knowing that the suggestion would be unpopular, but he voiced no protest.

  ‘What about her shoes?’

  ‘I can carry her downstairs and into a cab,’ said Hammond.

  ‘We needn’t bother about a cab, I’ve got our bus,’ said Mike.

  The girl said nothing, except to tell them when they asked her, that she lived in Audeley Street, Number 177a.

  With a feeling of fantasy akin to that which he had felt when he had first seen her, Hammond carried her downstairs to the stationary car.

  The drive took over ten minutes, then Mike turned in his seat.

  ‘Shall I get the subject introduced?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hammond. ‘Give me a shout when it’s all right to bring her in.’

  He watched Mike fade into the darkness, waited until he heard a knock at the front door, a murmur of conversation, and then the closing of the door. He felt very lonely, for the darkness now seemed to be of greater density. The girl sat motionless, clutching her handbag. An occasional car passed the end of the road, and once he heard plodding footsteps.

  For the rest there was only silence.

  Then the door of the house opened again.

  ‘All clear,’ Mike called. ‘Mind the step.’

  Someone else spoke, and then the thin glimmer of a torch lit up the way.

  Once in the hall, the light was good. Mike was standing by the side of a man of medium height, one who most of the people of England would have recognised, for Sir Noel Crayshaw had received as much publicity as his internal-combustion engines.

  All Hammond really noticed about him was that he had a pointed beard and a well-trimmed moustache, and that his expression was grave.

  ‘Hilary, my dear.’ Crayshaw stepped forward, and the girl looked at him with lack-lustre eyes. Hammond had expected an outburst of excuses and explanations, but the girl only said:

  ‘I’ve lost it. Someone took it.’

  ‘My dear child!’ Crayshaw’s voice was deep and mellow. ‘You really must not concern yourself about that now! Mr.——’ he looked at Hammond, and Mike supplied Bruce’s name, ‘Mr. Hammond, can I presume on your good offices to carry her to her room? Her maid will look after her.’

  Hammond nodded.

  ‘Thank you. I will lead the way.’ Crayshaw mounted the stairs ahead of them. There was an odd tenseness about his manner, despite his courtesy and his concern. He turned on the landing to see that Hammond was close behind him, nodded, reached the next landing, and then walked along a wide passage with curtained windows on one side and doors leading from the other.

  One door was standing open; a maid, in cap and apron, was standing by a four-poster bed, the sheets of which were already turned down.

  Hammond lowered the girl to the bed.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Crayshaw gravely. ‘Now if you will come with me I will be able to express my thanks for your very kindly action.’ He led the way downstairs, Hammond following. Although Crayshaw’s back was towards him he felt as if the man’s eyes were boring into his.

  Mike was still in the hall.

  The servant opened a door to the right of the hall, and then withdrew. Mike went first Hammond followed, and Crayshaw brought up the rear.

  ‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Crayshaw quickly, before either of them could speak, ‘that I owe you an apology and an explanation. I think perhaps you will understand me when I tell you that my daughter has been a source of great anxiety to me, particularly in the past few years. There is an explanation——’ he stepped to a cabinet, pressed a button, and stood back as the doors slid open to reveal an array of glasses, and several bottles. ‘An explanation which only suffices in part, of course. Two years ago, Hilary’s fiance was killed in a flying accident. Since then she has not been quite normal.’

  He brought out a bottle of cognac.

  ‘Not quite normal,’ he repeated, while Hammond waited, fascinated and tongue-tied. ‘Unfortunately she mixes with a rather worthless set, a habit only too popular with the young folk of today, especially when they have no need to worry about where their next allowance is coming from. I had thought her cured, but——’

  He finished pouring, handed them a glass apiece, cupping his own with long, sensitive fingers.

  ‘Now let us sit down, gentlemen.’ He waited until they were seated, then continued in a sharper voice: ‘She takes drugs, of course. Twice she has undergone a cure, but always there is the relapse. I have been told that in certain irresponsible moods she is suicidally inclined, and for that reason—have always made sure that she had a reliable escort. In fact I employ a man for just that purpose—one socially irreproachable you understand. Tonight, he failed me. Just why I cannot say.’ Crayshaw stopped, sipped the brandy, and then said in a very abrupt voice: ‘She tried to hang herself, didn’t she?’

  He looked at Mike, which gave Hammond the moment he needed to get over the statement—it was more than a question—and to shape his answer. Mike, because he did not know what had happened, returned a blank stare.

  Hammond said: ‘No, she didn’t.’

  Crayshaw turned abruptly, moving his whole body.

  ‘Nonsense! The mark
under the chin——’

  ‘Mr. Crayshaw,’ said Hammond quietly. ‘Do I have to remind you that it was I who brought your daughter here safely tonight?’

  Crayshaw, snapped: ‘The evidence is quite unmistakable.’

  ‘It certainly is, but not of what you suggest. That she was nearly hanged is true enough—but she did not hang herself. The circumstances make that impossible.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Crayshaw slowly. ‘I see.’ He looked at Hammond from beneath heavy lids, and went on quietly: ‘I mean no discourtesy when I tell you that after my experience with Hilary in the past two years, I have little doubt that in a mood which is, I believe, called “ecstatic” by devotees of hashish and marihuana and kindred drugs, she tried to kill herself, and cunningly concealed the effect. Your are doubtless thinking of the absence of shoes and stockings; that merely proves that she had been dancing.’

  Hammond sat back in his chair.

  ‘Along the street?’ he asked, ‘without a mark on her feet?’

  ‘Is that the case?’ Crayshaw looked puzzled. ‘There is doubtless an explanation——’

  ‘No,’ said Hammond, standing up abruptly. ‘No, there’s no explanation, except that her shoes and stockings were taken off either in my flat or before she was carried to the flat, and she was left to hang. Her handbag was examined, and something stolen from it, the loss of which terrified her because it was something of yours.’

  Crayshaw looked at him with a queer, twisted smile.

  ‘I have no doubt that the “something” will be found with the discarded shoes and stockings, Mr. Hammond. It is a small thing and a very simple one—a small, gold cross. It was her mother’s, and she sets great store by it. Dr. Grunfelt, a psychiatrist who has been attending her for some time, went to considerable trouble to discover that to Hilary that cross is the symbol of purity. I——’ he paused, ‘I feel incapable of explaining as I would like to explain, yet I must try. In diseases of the mind——’

  Hammond said: ‘If you would keep the explanation to the case in point, rather than in general, it would be simpler.’

  Crayshaw stared at him; Mike Errol stirred, as if in disagreement with Hammond’s attitude.

  ‘Of course,’ Crayshaw said at last. ‘In addition to the usual treatment, or “cure” for drugs, this symbol was likely to prove of great help. At Grunfelt’s suggestion, I told her that if she failed in her good behaviour while carrying the cross, she would fail herself, and me, and that the punishment of mind she would suffer would be almost too great to bear. Unhappily in a mood of ecstasy she flings the cross away; twice it has been returned to me after the offer of a reward. But, of course, when she recovers from the mood and realises what she has done, she is frightened—your use of the word “terrified” was quite appropriate, Mr. Hammond. Does that make my certainty more understandable?’

  Hammond hesitated, and then said: ‘Well, yes, it does.’

  ‘Did you advise the police?’ asked Crayshaw smoothly.

  ‘I didn’t think that was necessary.’ Hammond’s voice was casual, but he was watching the other. The man’s well-knit body appeared to relax, and he sipped again at the brandy. He did not try to hide a certain relief, but less, Hammond judged, than he felt.

  ‘I’m glad, Mr. Hammond. It is distressing even to get the slightest publicity. I should not like to feel that Hilary was put under the jurisdiction of the law. I shall, of course, take even stronger measures to prevent a repetition of what must have proved a most trying incident for you, most trying.’ He paused. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘In my flat,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry! I can easily understand your manner, your reluctances to believe the real explanation. You are an acquantance of Hilary’s?’

  ‘No,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Then how did she get in?’

  ‘How would she have got in had I been an acquaintance?’ demanded Hammond.

  ‘My dear young sir, presumably with a key.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hammond, ‘and that’s how she did get in. But there are only two keys in existence, to my knowledge, and neither was used tonight.’

  ‘What a puzzling business!’ exclaimed Crayshaw. ‘It’s quite incomprehensible to me. Where do you live, Mr. Hammond?’

  ‘At 50c, Jermyn Street.’

  ‘At——’ Crayshaw broke off. ‘God bless my soul, how strange! Ferdinand lives there, on the third floor. He is Hilary’s mentor, the man I mentioned. He—but perhaps you know him?’

  ‘No,’ said Hammond, ‘but I propose to, quite soon. Will you come with me to Jermyn Street, sir?’

  ‘Really, is that——’

  ‘Necessary? I think so.’ Hammond said brusquely. ‘If you don’t see him, the police will. I think he probably tried to murder your daughter, Mr. Crayshaw, whatever your personal opinion may be, but if you’ll come I’ll give him a chance to explain first.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Crayshaw. He paused, and Mike Errol thought he was about to make some kind of caustic rejoinder. Whatever it was, however, Crayshaw repressed. ‘I am at your service,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hammond.

  In silence they reached the Talbot. Even in it, except for refusing a cigarette, Crayshaw uttered no word.

  Once in Jermyn Street, they left the car quickly and moved up to Hammond’s flat.

  ‘Stay put, Mark, will you?’ Hammond called, and heard a distinct ‘damn you, why?’ as he went on up the stairs. He smiled to himself in the darkness, then reached a narrow landing. He had only been to the third floor of the house once or twice, and did not know it well.

  Mike shone a torch.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Hammond, and put a finger on the bell-push. They waited quietly; but there was no response. He tried again.

  ‘I always understood that he kept a key on the lintel,’ said Crayshaw at last. ‘In view of the fact that I employ him, I feel we would be justified in trying to get in.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Hammond stretched a hand to the top of the door, and his fingers closed on a key. He held it out to Crayshaw: ‘Will you use it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Crayshaw hastily. ‘Mine may have been the suggestion, but yours surely is the responsibility.’

  Hammond inserted the key, turned it, and then felt the door give. It was quite dark inside, the dim beam from Mike’s torch slipping furtively over the dull surfaces of shabby furniture.

  Hammond groped for and found a light switch, then pressed it down. They were in a thread-bare hall, four doors leading from it and all of them ajar.

  ‘Is anyone here?’ Hammond called.

  There was no answer.

  ‘I hope that we are justified in entering in this fashion,’ said Crayshaw, ‘I have a wholesome respect for the police, and this intrusion might rank as unlawful entry.’

  Hammond looked into the first room. It was empty. He tried the second, stepping in before the others, and half closing the door.

  They heard his exclamation.

  Fast upon it Crayshaw cried: ‘What is it? What have you found?’

  Hammond, ignoring the question, went slowly towards the bed. On it was a man whose right arm dangled to the floor. He had been strangled; his congested face, blue and purple, was dreadfully swollen. There was a cord about his neck similar to that which had been about Hilary’s.

  Hammond called softly: ‘Come in, you two.’

  Mike Errol urged Crayshaw forward. He entered the room, hesitated, and then stopped abruptly, his eyes widening, his hands clutching his stomach. With a retching sound he turned blindly away.

  ‘Let him go,’ Hammond said.

  Mike nodded. Crayshaw blundered across the hall and down the stairs. They heard him stumbling. His footsteps faded into the silence of the night, while Hammond and Errol approached the man on the bed.

  It was Errol who said: ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That boot,’ said Mike.

  ‘Boot?’ Hammond’s voice
rose as he followed the direction of Mike’s gaze, and saw a boot, a heavy, hob-nailed one, lying on a small table. The boot had been ripped open; even the sole gaped from the uppers.

  Hammond’s thoughts were of Craigie’s story, and Loftus’s report, as he stepped slowly forward.

  8

  Quiet Night

  There was not a great deal that either man could do.

  Ferdinand was dead; and Hammond judged he had been dead for several hours. It was impossible to judge anything of the man’s appearance, except that his hair was dark and that he was tall and thin. The grotesque distortions of his face were enough to turn any man’s stomach; Crayshaw’s reaction was hardly surprising.

  Mike Errol helped Hammond to straighten the body, while looking at the other curiously. Hammond’s manner, both at Crayshaw’s house and the flat, was puzzling. Errol had an impression that much was going on behind those tired hazel eyes. There seemed little purpose in what Hammond had done, particularly in his manner with Crayshaw; but Mike did not doubt that the reason was sound. He felt a confidence in Hammond akin to that which he felt in Loftus, although this man was more difficult to understand.

  With the ruined boot in his hand, Hammond turned to the door.

  ‘There were a lot of things I forgot to ask Craigie,’ he said. ‘When I’ve come across deadoes during the past few years I’ve scarpered and concentrated on working up an alibi. I suppose I don’t need to do that here?’

  ‘Generally we get hold of Miller, at the Yard,’ said Mike. ‘He’s liaison officer, or what serves for it.’

  ‘Does he take orders?’

  Mike grinned.

  ‘Let’s put it that he acts on suggestions.’

  ‘A nice distinction,’ smiled Hammond. ‘I’m beginning to feel at home already. I wonder——’ he paused in the doorway, then added irritably: ‘I wish I weren’t so damned tired. This needs such a hell of a lot of sorting out. Do you believe in coincidence?’

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Mike cautiously.

  ‘Ye—es, well, I guess this passes it. I come home and find Hilary, confound her selfish heart, hanging behind my door. That’s peculiar, to say the least of it. Crayshaw not only had a beautiful story prepared for us, but had spent some time working it up. Another coincidence——’