by John Creasey
“I’m Beryl Belman,” she announced.
He played dumb.
“Who?”
“Marjorie Belman’s sister,” the girl said flatly. He had to say something, he had to recover from the shock,
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Jorrie’s sister!”
“That’s right,” said Beryl Belman, solemnly. “Her older sister.”
“I didn’t even know she had one.”
“Will you please tell me where she is?” Little was feeling better now and beginning to think clearly. If she had seen him the other night she would have said something about it by now, so there was no emergency - yet.
“Isn’t she at her flat?”
“No. I’ve just come from there.”
“Well - I don’t know where she is,” Little declared. “No - no idea. I know she is a friend of my managing director, but he’s not at this branch today. I’ll ask him to let you know if he has any idea where Jorrie is, shall I? Eh? Can I - can I get in touch with you?”
He offered cigarettes. When Beryl Belman didn’t appear to notice them, Little took one himself, his fingers unsteady.
“Sure you won’t have a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” she said flatly.
Now she was staring at him even more intently. It was almost as if she was wondering where she had seen him before, as if she was accusing him.
“Well, er, if you’ll tell me where I can get in touch with you, I’ll ask my boss if he can help,” Little offered.
“Where can I see him?”
“He travels about so much that you can never be sure.”
“I want to talk to him. I’ve telephoned him twice, but he’s been out each time. I want to talk to him about my sister.”
Little replied calmly, “Your sister was quite old enough to look after herself, you know. She . . .” He, realized suddenly that he had said “your sister was,” and for a terrible moment thought that this girl would realize the significance of the slip, but she did not seem to be shocked. “I mean, she’s over twenty-one, she can do what she likes.”
“I don’t want to argue with you,” said Beryl, “but I intend to see Bruce Carraway. He may not realize it, but he’s broken my mother’s heart, and my father’s terribly upset, too. I’ve got to see Marjorie and make her come back home. I’ve been along to her flat twice a day since last Tuesday, and there’s no answer. One of the cleaners said that a man was there last night, but that he hasn’t seen Marjorie, and - I want to know if Carraway has cast her aside.”
The words came out so quietly that they carried tragedy, not pathos, even when she went on: “Has he? If he has, she’s got to realize that Mum and Dad will forgive her. All they want is for her to come back.”
Little was feeling much better, virtually certain that she hadn’t recognized him, confident that he could handle the situation.
“I don’t think there’s been any trouble between Jorrie and my boss,” he said. “But I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks or more.”
Beryl Belman looked astonished: “Of course you have!”
“Now look here, young lady,” said Little almost playfully. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“You saw her last Tuesday evening, and took her off in a car,” asserted Beryl sharply. “I’d been to her flat, and followed her to Piccadilly. I saw her go off with you.”
The words sounded like a death knell to Eric Little, each one booming sonorously inside his head. It was an awful sound, with a terrible significance which he could not fail to see. If this girl ever talked to the police, he would be caught for murder.
He thought: I’ve got to get rid of her.
Beryl thought: He’s lying to me.
And she thought: He looks like the man I saw at Jorrie’s place, but I can’t be sure.
Her heart was beating very fast as she waited for him to make some comment, for no man liked being called a liar. Other thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, the most important being that she had to find out where Jorrie was and that this man might be able to help her. She was scared, and yet determined, as she stared defiantly into the man’s sallow but rather good-looking face. He kept moving his lips without opening his mouth, and she assumed that he was trying to keep a hold on his temper.
Before he spoke, Beryl said: “It’s no use pretending. I did see you.
“All - all right,” said Little, and his lips parted in a tense smile; she did not notice that there was no smile in his eyes. “I can’t fool you, I can see.” He rubbed his nose with a sharp, vigorous action. “As a matter of fact . . .”
A car turned in from the main road, and moved fast towards him; it was one of the other salesmen. He glanced around. He saw no policemen, so apparently they had gone after Carraway. He waved to the - newcomer, a kind of “keep off gesture, and the other grinned and went jauntily into the salesroom. Heavy traffic was passing along the road, often very fast.
“Listen,” said Little. “We can’t talk here, we’re bound to be interrupted, and I’ve got a customer coming in five minutes’ time. How about meeting me later?’ “I want to know where my sister is,” Beryl said firmly. “I’m not going to be put off.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ll tell you all I can,” he assured her. She could not make up her mind whether he was lying or telling the truth. “It’s a bit complicated, and - well, Carraway’s my boss, see. I’ve got to watch myself.” She saw sweat on his forehead. “We close at half-past eight. How about meeting me at Hampstead Heath at nine o’clock?”
“I don’t know Hampstead Heath very well,” Beryl objected, quickly.
“That’s all right, we can meet somewhere central,” said Little, hastily. “How about by the pond? You can get there by bus. The easy way is to go to Swiss Cottage and walk. We can have a talk, and . . .”
“Do you know where Jorrie is?”
Little said: “As a matter of fact, I’m a bit worried about her. I don’t think Carraway’s playing the game by her. But - listen, I can’t talk here, my customer’s just arrived.”
A scarlet MG car swung off the road, a young man with snowy fair hair driving and a girl with a mop of nearly black hair sitting beside him. They looked handsome and attractive. The driver raised a hand in greeting to the man with Beryl, and she realized that there was no chance to talk now; all that mattered was making this man tell her where to find Jorrie. “Will you be there?” the man demanded.
“I - yes, all right, but you’d better have news for me.”
“I’ll have news,” he assured her. He gripped her hand and forced a smile. “Don’t worry; I’ll have news for you.” He turned away and walked hurriedly towards the snowy-haired driver and his companion. The girl was sitting at ease with an arm stretched along the back of the bench seat.
“Good evening, Mr. Armstrong,” the salesman said, his voice carrying clearly. “I’ve got that Bristol ready . . .”
It was half-past seven, so there was plenty of time - too much time. With a sense of eagerness and excitement which she had not known before, Beryl left the showrooms. It looked as if she was going to get what she wanted. It wouldn’t be long now.
“I tell you she saw me, she can put a finger on me,” Little said, huskily. He was in the office, just before half-past eight, and Carraway was sitting at his desk, his jacket on now, looking as if he had just come from his tailor. “We’ve got to keep her quiet, can’t you see?”
“We haven’t got to keep anyone quiet,” Carraway said.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Listen, Eric,” Carraway said, and leaned forward, staring up into the other’s eyes. “You’re in trouble. I’m not. The only witness who could have caught me out on the Rawson job is dead, and you killed her. You laid it all on. I didn’t touch her. I hadn’t seen her for days. I wasn’t anywhere near Brighton or the south coast, and
I can prove it. Don’t get anything wrong. I’m not in any trouble.”
Little stood, half crouching, his
body so rigid that it was almost as if it had turned to stone. The only vivid sign of life was in his burning eyes.
“I was playing poker with you and the others on the night Rawson was murdered, and the others will stick to that story,” Carraway went on. “Understand that? If you try to back out now, I’ll say that you’re trying to frame me. The police might question me, they might even charge me,’ but they couldn’t make the charge stick. You could talk till you’re blue in the face and it wouldn’t be any use to them as evidence.”
Little said, in a queer grating voice: “You paid me - a thousand quid.”
“For commission, Eric, for commission! We’ve had a damned good season, in spite of the slump. I paid the others a thousand quid each, too. After all, fair’s fair. You’re in trouble all right, but you can get yourself out. Don’t try to drag me into it, that’s all.” He gave a short, high-pitched laugh. “Why, it was you who went to Jorrie’s apartment and started getting her clothes together! I was on the outskirts of London at the time, and can prove it. Just get yourself out of trouble, Eric, and don’t expect any help from me.”
“Why, you - you swine.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Carraway said, smoothly. “You’ve got a good job, and you’ll always get a fat bonus while you work for me. All you have to do is keep yourself out of trouble - like you have before. Just think what your wife and kids would feel like if you got topped for killing . . .”
“Keep your bloody mouth shut!” Little screeched.
“I’m only telling you,” said Carraway. Then he leaned forward and went on earnestly: “You’ve got a lot to thank me for, Eric. The cops are after me, not you. They’re not interested in you yet. You’ve got plenty of time to do what you want to do. Why don’t you use that time? I’m going to have a nice little drive out to Watford, That will keep them busy, radio patrol cars and all. While I’m leading them up the garden, you’ve got plenty of time to shut that little bitch’s mouth.”
10: Shadow
Eric Little stepped out of Carraway’s office, almost blinded with rage, but as he walked across to the cars, his heels cracking against the macadam, fear began to creep up on him: fear of what the girl’s evidence could do. By the time he reached his car, he realized beyond doubt that Carraway was right. The slimy, cunning swine had fixed things so that nothing could be proved against him; he had swung the whole load on to Little’s shoulders.
Little almost choked.
He had to get rid of that girl.
He sat in the car for a few minutes, drawing fiercely at a cigarette. It was twenty-five to nine. The other salesmen had gone home, only Carraway and the petrol pump attendants were on the premises, and he did not think that Carraway would come out yet.
He was a devil.
One sentence he had uttered burned itself into Little’s mind. “Just think what your wife and kids would feel like if you got topped for killing . . .”
Nora and the kids, the triplets, Beth, Jane and Bob. He had killed once to save his home and his family, and Carraway knew that it was the one all-consuming love of his life. Somehow he couldn’t help playing around with other girls, but he was never serious and Nora never knew. Nora mustn’t know.
Why the hell had he allowed Carraway to make him kill Jorrie?
It did not matter how often he asked the question, the answer was always the same: not for the money, at least not only for the money, but because of the earlier murder, because he would do anything to save his home.
Now he had to go and see - now he had to go and kill - Beryl Belman.
He tossed the cigarette out the window, started the engine, and drove with more than usual care on to the main road where the traffic had slackened. Then he turned towards Swiss Cottage. He could be at the pond in ten minutes and he might arrive before the girl. He didn’t want that, he wanted to draw up alongside her, tell her to step in, and make sure that no one standing around could identify him. He could change the number plates on the car in the morning; there was no danger from that.
He drove slowly as far as Swiss Cottage and up the hill towards the heath to the pond.
A few children were still playing with boats in the dusk, and the lights of a dozen cars were reflected in the water. A few adults were standing around, idly. A man went hurrying up to a girl and they flung their arms around each other, as if their lives depended on their meeting.
Beryl wasn’t there.
Little drove down towards the village, and it was then that he noticed the Rover. Shocked, he remembered that the police often drove Rovers. It was fairly close behind him, and although he gave it two chances to pass, the driver preferred to lag behind. Now Little’s heart began to pound. He peered into his mirror and made out the heads and shoulders of two men in the front of the car; both big men who might be from the Yard. He could not see them well enough to be sure, but who else would follow him? He turned a corner without giving a signal and the Rover came after him, but made no attempt to catch up.
Words burst from his lips: “They’re after me.” He was in a panic for several minutes, wanting to pull up and to give himself a chance to think, wanting to make sure that these men were detectives. He slowed down to ten miles an hour - so did the other car. There was no reasonable doubt that they were detectives. That girl would be waiting for him by now. The police mustn’t see him with her; if they once saw him with her they would start asking questions and she would talk, just as Jorrie would have. He was sweating and half choking as he drove on, fighting for self control, and trying to make himself think clearly. If he didn’t turn up at the pond, the girl probably would go to the police. The danger was acute. He must stop her somehow - Oh, God, what should he do? And what would the police think of him, driving around like this? He had to fool them. It could be life and death. As he began to reason with himself, he felt better, and slowly evolved a practicable plan. He must drive to a corner fairly close to the pond, park the car, give the impression that he was waiting for someone, and then make a rush for the pond and the girl. He must put her off somehow, without being seen with her; that was the only chance.
He waited until five past nine, and then pulled up near the gates of a big private house. He parked for a few minutes before getting out and walking up and down. The men sat and waited for him, without troubling to get out, as if they believed that he would be all right while near his car. He strolled as far as the corner of the street, turned as if casually, then swung round again and made a rush for the pond. He did not see whether he was followed, just raced towards the spot itself. He saw Beryl waiting, looking about her. She saw him coming.
He rushed up to her, now walking very fast, and before she could speak he burst out: “I can’t wait now, Carraway’s following me, Call me at the garage, Monday. Ask for Eric Little. I’m on Jorrie’s trail.”
Then he left her standing.
An hour later, the Rover turned into the street where he lived, in Hendon, a street of small modern houses with the lamps alight and windows aglow. He turned his car into the garage and got out. He had decided what to say to Nora if the police came to ask him questions; he would put all the blame on Carraway. He felt better, as he always did when he had had time to think.
He let himself in, and the living-room door opened. Nora, tall, fair, willowy, appeared against the light.
“Is that you, Eric?’
“Yes, pet, I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t make a sound; they’ve only just got off to sleep.”
“I won’t make a sound,” Little promised. He felt much, much better an hour later, for the police had not called on him, and the Rover had disappeared from the street. He had won another chance to make sure that Beryl Belman could never give evidence against him.
Beryl knew only that the black-haired man had looked scared, and that frightened her, too. She took it for granted that he was frightened by Carraway, and if Carraway could have that effect on a man, what could he do to Jorrie?
She would wa
it until Monday, anyhow, ask for Eric Little, and see what he had to say. If she got no results she would have to make herself confront Carraway. But it would be far better if she could find out from the other man where Jorrie was.
The fear which entered her head about Jorrie, the obvious explanation of her disappearance, did not really shock Beryl, but just made her feel miserable because of the effect it would have on her mother and father.
Supposing Jorrie was going to have a baby?
11: Two Men Walk
Just after ten o’clock next morning, Sunday, the telephone rang in Gideon’s house. Two of his daughters were in the kitchen, finishing the washing-up, and young Malcolm was scurrying through his week-end task of peeling the potatoes and apples for lunch, not exactly resentful of the chore, but with a thirteen-year old’s impatience. Kate was bustling about upstairs, making the beds. It was a heavy, muggy day. The grass was dripping with moisture, the windows were streaked, and unless the sun broke through there would be no chance of working in the garden. Gideon was sitting in the front room, a Sunday custom, with the newspapers. He turned to the gardening notes of the Express as the phone rang.
Sleeves rolled up, shirt collar undone; Gideon strolled into the hall, where one of the telephones was. It was Abbott calling about the pathologist’s report on Marjorie Belman. Abbott was much more incisive than usual; he had taken the girl’s death hard and blamed himself for letting her disappear. The consequence seemed to be an even greater determination to catch her killer.
“Yes, it was murder all right. There’s a scratch on her shoulder, probably where she was held under water. Her bikini was put on after death - scratch marks make that clear. That’s official.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Gideon.
“I need to know whether Carraway or one of his three stooges has a big ring on either hand,” said Abbott. “Shall I call the Yard about it?”
“I’ll call ‘em,” Gideon said. “I want to check whether anything’s in, anyhow.”
