by John Creasey
“Marjorie Belman.”
“One or-two?”
“One.”
“Marjorie Belman,” Gideon repeated into the telephone, and added: “One L,” before ringing off. “Let’s get the full description, her address, everything you know about her.” His tone belied the urgency of his actions; he knew that he would have to be very careful if he was not to drive Abbott into a nervous flap. “Can you give it to me straight?”
“Yes,” said Abbott. He seemed clear-voiced and steadier, as if the vigour of Gideon’s reaction already had done him good. “Marjorie Belman, aged twenty or so, height five-five or six, weight about one hundred and fifteen pounds, size nine, ten or so, thirty . . .”
“Flat-chested?”
“Not big and busty, anyway,” Abbott said. “Nut-brown hair, like a feather mop, dark-blue eyes, slightly olive complexion, rosebud mouth . ..”
A picture of the girl etched itself on his mind as he talked.
5: The Fears of Marjorie Belman
Bruce Carraway had always been able to make Marjorie Belman do what he wanted.
She could never really recall what had happened on the first night they had met, but she remembered waking, naked body next to his naked body, and remembered the sense of shock and even of shame, until he had wakened and looked at her through his dark lashes, and then caressed her, kissed her, possessed her. She would never forget the ecstasy, and yet she could never be wholly without shame. The awful moment had come when she went home after work next evening and had a violent quarrel with her father when he had accused her of lying to him. The scene with her mother, who had begged her to tell the truth, had been nearly as bad. Only her elder sister, Beryl, had shown any understanding or sympathy. She had left home for the tiny two-roomed flat, everything she needed paid for by Bruce. She had television, better clothes, a luxurious bathroom - and she did not need to work. Since then happiness and ecstasy had been her bedfellows, and apart from the shadow of the dismay of her parents, she had known nothing but contentment. Beryl had been to see her three times, and the last time had tried to make her go back home, but she had felt no real anxiety until Arthur Rawson’s murder.
Had Bruce killed him?
She wasn’t really sure, but feared that he had because she had heard him saying to Eric Little that “dear old Arthur would be better out of the way.” She was to meet Bruce at six o’clock on the Swan and Edgar corner of Piccadilly, and already her heart was beating fast at the prospect - partly excitement, partly fear. She had to find out the truth about that murder, because the police kept questioning her. They had, only that day. It was the day when Abbott had talked to Gideon.
Marjorie was ready to leave, was actually closing the door of her flat, when she heard footsteps downstairs, and then her older sister’s voice. “Is Miss Belman in, do you know?” Beryl was talking to the lift man. Tight-lipped, Marjorie went forward, and Beryl caught sight of her.
“Jorrie!” she exclaimed.
“Beryl, it’s no use talking, I’m not coming home,” Marjorie said thinly. “I’ve told you before . . .”
“Jorrie, please listen to me,” Beryl pleaded. She was slightly taller, had a fuller figure than Marjorie, and was quite as attractive. Now tension and desperation made her eyes shine. “I’ve simply got to make you understand that Mum’s terribly ill. If you don’t come back . . .”
The lift man was very near them.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t talk so loudly,” Marjorie said angrily. “Everyone will hear you. Anyhow, I can’t wait now.”
“You’ve got to listen to me!” Beryl put a hand on her sister’s arm. “If you don’t leave that man, it will kill Mum. She’s like a ghost walking, she’s terrible. And Dad’s nearly as bad.”
“They’ll get over it, like thousands of straight-laced parents before them,” Marjorie said. “You’re the real fool, for getting so worked up about it. If you can’t mind your own business, I don’t want to see you again, either.”
“Jorrie, you don’t know what you’re doing.” Marjorie said thinly: “Let go of my arm, and if you can’t be friendly, stay away from me.” She wrenched herself free and half-ran out of the hallway into the street. The door swung to behind her.
Halfway along the street toward Piccadilly she glanced around, but there was no sign of Beryl. She was breathing heavily, still angry, but now partly with herself. Why had Beryl chosen such an awkward time? Why wouldn’t she leave her alone? Parents were always the same, anyhow - why, her father had practically driven her away from home.
When she reached Piccadilly Circus, she watched every well-dressed man in the distance, longing to see Bruce. The bustle of traffic and of people was all around her. The pavements seemed hot, the petrol fumes smelly. A coloured couple came walking along, arm-in-arm, oblivious of the heart of London. Marjorie kept looking across at the tiny shiny statue of Eros.
A middle-aged man sauntered up to her. “Would you care for a drink, my dear?” She glared at him. “Now come on . . .” the man began, and then broke off and moved away quickly. Marjorie saw a youthful looking policeman staring at her; he had frightened the man off, but he had also frightened Marjorie. She was afraid of the police.
Why didn’t Bruce come? She felt as if everyone was staring at her. Then she saw a youngish man with a bushy moustache and a beaming smile bearing down on her. She turned and walked away.
“Now, come, darling . . .”
It was beastly.
The policeman walked towards her and the man with the bushy moustache marched past. She thought the policeman was going to speak, but he did not. She had no idea how pretty and lonely she looked, how many men glanced at her, almost wistfully.
She kept looking around for Beryl but did not see her; that was a good thing.
When at last she heard a familiar voice, it wasn’t Bruce’s.
“Waiting for someone, Jorrie?”
She turned quickly, to see Eric Little. He was short and stocky, his black hair was curly, and he had a very bright smile. He wouldn’t have been so bad, except for the fact that whenever Bruce was out of the way, he was likely to slide his arm around her waist or nuzzle her neck.
“I - I thought Bruce would be here by now,” she said, acutely disappointed.
“He got held up,” said Eric, “so he asked me to come and collect you. Had to go down to Brighton, you see. Be a nice night for the drive, won’t it!” He put his hand on her arm and led her towards Piccadilly; his black Austin Cambridge was parked near the hotel. His grasp was firm, but with no hint of impudence or familiarity. She got into the car beside him. Soon, the cool evening air swept in through both windows, caressing her.
She had a final look around but saw no sign of Beryl. Eric chose the Fulham and Putney Road, which was slightly longer but less busy. Marjorie noticed that he kept glancing at her, which puzzled her. Usually, even if she felt his fingers at her knees, she would look at him angrily, and find him staring straight ahead. This evening he kept stabbing those strange glances at her. He drove very fast once they were on the open road and then he turned off towards Guildford. It seemed as if he had something on his mind.
“Eric, why did Bruce have to go to Brighton tonight?” Marjorie asked, suddenly.
“Big bizz, old girl.”
“He didn’t tell me about it.”
“Can’t tell the little lady everything.”
“Eric . . .”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Is everything all right?” He looked at her sharply. “What’s that?”
“Is everything all right?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“I - I thought Bruce’s been rather - rather worried lately.”
“Old Bruce? Not on your life!”
After a few minutes silence, she moistened her lips and said: “Eric.”
“Yes?’
“It isn’t any use lying to me.”
“As if I would.”
“Eric, Bruce is frightened of
the police, I know he is. So am 1.1 - I’m afraid of what I’ll say if that man comes again.”
“What man?”
“The detective.”
“That man Abbott you told Bruce about?”
“Yes.”
“Forget him, honey bun.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marjorie said.
“Listen, Jorrie,” said Eric in his rather high-pitched voice, “I tell you there’s no need to worry. Bruce is fixing things. We’re going to smuggle you out of the country.” When Marjorie caught her breath, his left hand gripped her firmly just above the knees. “Bruce knows that it worries you when the police ask questions. He didn’t have anything to do with the murder of his partner, it’s only a matter of time before we prove it, but meanwhile - well, he doesn’t want you worried by the police and he’s fed up with them, too. He’s on board a big motor yacht, off Brighton. You and Bruce are going to have a nice little holiday, going all the way to the Riviera. I’m going to take you out to the yacht as soon as it’s dark.”
Marjorie felt quite sure that Bruce was running away, and it scared her. But she loved him so, she had to be with him. And - the Riviera was wonderful.
They had dinner at Horsham, and night had fallen by the time they reached Brighton. Eric kept joking about a Riviera “honeymoon.” She would not let herself think about the probability that Bruce was really running away. She could hardly wait to see him. A small motorboat was waiting on the beach some distance from the main piers; the fact that it was quiet didn’t surprise Marjorie at all.
When they were some distance out to sea, with the lights of the two piers and the promenade like diamonds and emeralds, rubies and sapphires, reflecting on the calm water, she had a creepy feeling. She couldn’t understand why Bruce hadn’t turned up by now. Why was Eric taking her so far in this small motorboat? It was cold, too.
Eric moved away from the wheel.
“We’ll let Oswald the automatic pilot take over,” he said jocularly. “Listen, Jorrie . . .” he slid his arm around her. “Old Bruce won’t be long ...”
Soon she felt the boat slowing down, and realized that Eric had cut out the engine; they were going round and round in circles. She tried to push Eric away, but he was too strong for her. Suddenly fear came over her like a great wave. He was holding her in a peculiar way; he was lifting her from her seat, he -
She realized suddenly what he was going to do, and with a surge of terror she kicked and struck out at him. But he just swung her over the edge of the boat and dropped her into the sea. She tried to scream, made a funny gurgling sound and took in a mouthful of water. It made her retch and choke. She struggled wildly to reach the surface, but as she did so a weight pressed against her shoulders.
She felt a sharp pain on her right shoulder as her head went under.
Eric was kneeling on the edge of the boat, pressing her down, down, down.
Undressing Marjorie when she was dead made Little feel sick. Dragging on the bikini pants, tying the bikini top about her small, soft breasts was horrible. Pushing her body into the sea again was a relief. He started the engine almost at once, and the pale blur that had been Marjorie Belman sank slowly out of sight.
Now all he had to do was get rid of her clothes.
Beryl Belman got off the bus at the end of Carmody Street, Clapham, and walked quickly towards her home, Number 43. The long street had three-storey houses of red brick on either side, and each house looked very like the next: A few people were walking along, a motorcyclist passed, a woman from next door-but-one came hurrying, stopped, and said: “Beryl, dear, I do hope your mother’s feeling better. She’s been looking so ill lately.”
“She’s a bit run down,” Beryl said, and thought: the nosey old bitch, she knows what’s happened. “I must hurry, Mrs. Lee.”
Actually, she did not want to hurry, for she hated what she would find. She squared her shoulders, put on a bright smile, and knocked at the front door. Her father opened it, looked at her searchingly, and then half-closed his eyes as if he knew she had failed.
As she went in, he said: “So you didn’t see her.”
“Yes, I saw her,” Beryl said. “She wouldn’t listen, that’s all.” Suddenly all her courage died away and tears stung her eyes. “It’s no use, Dad. It’s no use at all.”
“Don’t tell your mother you saw her,” her father ordered. He was a short, thin, harassed-looking man. His lack of a son had always hurt him, and too often driven him to outbursts of spiteful bad temper. Now, Beryl knew, he reproached himself dreadfully because he was partly responsible for driving Jorrie away. “Don’t tell her, Bee. She’s - she’s a little bit better, I think. Don’t tell her; just say that Jorrie was out.”
From the kitchen along the hall, his wife called: “Is that you Beryl?”
“Yes, Mum!”
“Well, don’t stand there whispering to your father. Have you seen Jorrie?”
Beryl lied: “No, Mum. She wasn’t in.”
Her mother stared at her as if with doubt and suspicion. Eyes which for so long had been gentle with love for her daughters, and pride in their appearance, were lacklustre, red-rimmed, far too prominent. A soft voice had become harsh, a mild manner had become impatient and sharp.
“Don’t lie to me, Beryl!”
“But, Mum, I . . .”
“It’s bad enough to have a daughter go off and live in sin, without having another who lies to me. Did you see Jorrie?’
Slowly, helplessly, Beryl said “Yes.”
“And she won’t come home?”
“She - she won’t yet, Mum. She . . .”
“She won’t ever come home, I know that,” said Mrs. Belman, in a strangled voice. “I’ve lost her. I’ve lost my Jorrie. I’ve lost . . .”
Quite suddenly, she crumpled up. As she fell, Belman pushed past Beryl, thrust her mother towards a chair and saved her from falling heavily, then stood looking down at her ashen face and at her slack mouth. Watching them, twenty-two-year-old Beryl Belman dedicated herself to a task which she did not dream was impossible of achievement.
I’ll make Jorrie come, home, she pledged silently. I’ll make her realize what Carraway really is, and what she’s done.
It was easy enough to tell her parents, after supper, that she was going out to a Dance Club. At half-past eight she walked briskly and determinedly along the street, caught a bus at the end of the road, and went straight to Piccadilly. It was dark, but the lights flashed in a dozen colours, the Circus and the streets leading off were thronged. She saw a young constable stare at her, ignored him, and walked quickly, angrily, towards Alden Street where Jorrie had her flat. The street door was open and a small lift was at the end of a narrow passage. A light showed at the door of the caretaker’s room, down in the subbasement, but no one opened the door. Now her heart began to thump, for Marjorie was probably here, with Carraway. Even if they were together, she had to talk to Marjorie, and she could tell
Carraway to his face what she thought of him. The man must have some decency.
Beryl pressed the fifth and top-floor button of the lift, stepped out and stood in front of Marjorie’s door. A light was on inside, so she was in. Beryl clenched her hands and her teeth, feeling a tension greater than she ever had known.
She had to talk to Jorrie, whether Carraway was there or not.
She pressed the bell, heard it ring, and stood back a pace, her teeth still clenched, words churning over and over in her mind. She must shock Jorrie into listening; she must make her pay attention.
Jorrie did not answer.
Tension and anxiety and a kind of fear began to melt together into anger. Carraway was in there with her sister, of course. They were probably in bed together. The last thing they would want was an interruption! Beryl stabbed at the bell again; nothing would make her go away until she had talked to Jorrie.
There was no answer.
“Jorrie!” she called out in a sharp voice. “I know you’re in there. Come and open the door.
”
There was only silence.
Beryl put her forefinger on the bell push, pressed hard, and kept it there, hearing the long, harsh, ringing sound. Surely no one could fail to answer it. It must be getting on their nerves.
“If you don’t answer I’ll go for the police!” she cried. It was a threat drawn out of her by desperation, the only threat she could now imagine which might make Jorrie open the door. When the last word quivered on the stuffy air of the tiny landing, she felt that she had tried everything she knew, and lost. Tears of mortification and disappointment filled her eyes, and she turned away, not knowing what to do. The lift gates were open, behind her, and by the side of the lift was a narrow staircase. She stepped forward and then heard a click of sound behind her. Her heart leapt. Jorrie! She spun around. The door of the flat was opening, but there was no light inside. Only the light in the landing showed that it wasn’t Jorrie, it was a man.
He flung himself at her.
A cloth was pulled over his face and she could see only his eyes, dark, bright, glittering. She uttered a scream, but he struck her across the face, sending her reeling against the wall, silencing her. She slipped on the top step, and fell, banging her head painfully. Terror as great as her sister’s welled up in her. Then she heard a voice from below, loud and clear: “What’s going on up there?”
She heard other sounds, including a whining, and realized that the lift was going down. Through the iron trellis work of the shaft she saw the man who had attacked her. The cloth had been pulled to one side, and she caught a glimpse of his profile before he disappeared below the level of the floor.
The man from below called again: “What’s going on?”
Panic-stricken, she realized that she mustn’t cause a scandal, for her mother would never stand it. She was dazed, frightened, unsure of herself, unable to grasp what had happened - but she must not cause a scandal. It would kill her mother, and Jorrie would never forgive her.
