Sequel to Murder: The Cases of Arthur Crook and Other Mysteries

by Anthony Gilbert

  “Oh? What’s that? It’s not mine, I didn’t bring anything ...”

  “No.” He couldn’t flog any enthusiasm into his voice.

  She leaned nearer. “Mr. Smith, 19, Merriton Square. Oh, is it something to be posted?”

  Only it wasn’t stamped, and it would be too late for Christmas, anyway.

  The little brown man behind the counter began to cough; he coughed as though he couldn’t help it, as though his whole life was slipping away from

  him in those agonised sounds.

  “Oh, dear,” said Gillian.

  “You do sound bad. Have you got to take this round to-night? What a shame!” He said, smoothing his thin brown hands over his face as though to wipe away the last trace of the cough, “It’s got to be delivered to-night.”

  He watched her anxiously. It couldn’t be that he was wrong about her after all. A police constable, materialising out of the fog, came to stand by the window. Mr. Benn felt himself turning cold.

  At last Gillian looked up. “I could take it for you, if you like,” she said. “Merriton Square isn’t very far out of my way, and—I’m sure you shouldn’t go out again to-night.”

  The boss trained them well, he thought; if that policeman was watching he’d swear she didn’t know a thing.

  “I know how it is with a present,” she went on. “Even if you know it’s coming, it never seems quite the same thing if you don’t get it on the day.”

  He felt the germ of unease stir within him. Acting was all very well, but surely this was overdoing it. But before he could speak again she had opened her bag and slipped the packet in and turned to smile at him. The policeman, who had only been staring in the window, perhaps, because it was the one lighted place in the area, strolled on. His heart settled down. Of course it was all right.

  “Is there any message?” she enquired, turning to go.

  He shook his head, smiling faintly for the first time. “No. It’s expected.

  They rang up. That’s when I promised... .” He could do a little acting, too,

  when he had to.

  He moved to indicate that there was nothing more to be said. He told her how to find the main road and watched her go. Now he wanted nothing but to put up the shutters, close the shop and find the only peace left to him,

  oblivion at the point of a needle. She saw the move and turned to the door.

  “You needn’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be all right.” And as she went out she threw a “Happy Christmas” over her shoulder. That shook him, made him

  wonder if, after all.... But it was too late now, she’d gone. And anyway, what on earth was she doing here at this hour, a girl like that, if she wasn’t part of the scheme? He came round, walking a little lame, and began to put up the shutters.

  Gillian came out of the shop and began to make her careful way towards the main road, following Mr. Benn’s instructions. As she crossed the street she looked up; the fog had cleared sufficiently for her to be able to make out his name painted above the door. She felt the blue stone under her dark glove and confidence began to return. It was quite a little adventure to tell Richard, and remembering him, she glanced at the watch on her wrist.

  To her horror she found it was twenty minutes to seven—and Richard was expected at seven o’clock. It was unthinkable that he should arrive and find the flat in darkness, an omen even for the future. She drove the thought away and hurried forward. Perhaps, now it had lightened a little, some of the omnibuses would be running. But, of course, they had stopped some time ago. Sheer suicide and murder to keep them on the roads, drivers and conductors had agreed. The long main street was full of shadows but not much else. All sane people would be under cover by now. She passed a few lighted windows, all closed and curtained, though here and there a wireless sang or shouted through the dusk.

  Love came down at Christmas, she heard, and her heart lifted again. She began to hurry. Perhaps there was an Underground station not far off. But she saw no welcoming blue lighted sign and was beginning to despair, when a whisper of wheels reached her ears and, turning, she saw a solitary taxi come chugging up behind her, its flag covered. She stood on the kerb, holding up her hand and shouting, “Gordon Street,” in the hope that it might be going that way. The cab stopped and the driver peered out.

  “I’m going to Ship Street,” he said, “if that’s any good.”

  She jumped in gratefully. She knew Ship Street, it wasn’t more than five minutes away from her home. Oh, what good fortune that she should have found this cab. She might just catch Richard after all. All her thoughts were for him and of him; the encounter with Mr. Benn might never have taken place; in her heart she urged the taxi to greater speed, and when it set her down she hurried towards Gordon Street as fast as feet would take her. She didn’t give the little packet a thought—not then. If she had, the whole story might have been different for them all.

  The telephone was shrilling away as she came up the stairs, and as she thrust her key into the door she thought, “Richard! Something’s happened.

  He can’t come to-night. He’s ill—changed his mind—dead.” Even as she thought this she knew it was nonsense, for how could love die in an hour, yet her heart beat wildly as she flung down her bag and gloves, pulled off the blue mackintosh and wrenched the receiver from its rest.

  It was Richard, but he sounded exasperated rather than loving.

  “At last!” he exclaimed. “This is the third time I’ve rung. Where on earth have you been?”

  “Darling, I was out—shopping.”

  “At this hour?”

  “There were just a few little things—and then the fog came on and I lost my way.”

  “That’s what I thought. Know why I’m going to be late this evening?” He disregarded her protesting wail. “Because some other bright boy thought he’d do a bit of shopping and lost his way in the fog and walked slap into a bus.”

  “Oh, darling! On Christmas Eve? What wicked luck! Is he ...?”

  “He’ll do,” was Richard’s grim rejoinder. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry

  for the chap. He’s going to do me out of at least half an hour of your company. Oh, yes, he’ll be all right, but if anyone was looking to him to lend a hand with the washing-up this Christmas they’re going to be disappointed.

  Now, don’t take it into your head, because you’ve got a little time on your hands, to go out and buy a few more things we don’t need.”

  “Darling, I couldn’t. The shops are all shut. Yes, I promise. Oh, darling, I do love you so. I don’t want you to neglect your poor casualty, but don’t be longer than you can help. I’ve got so much to tell you. Richard, I’ve bought a ring.”

  “You’ve bought what?”

  “With Aunt Henrietta’s five pounds. With a lovely blue stone. From a queer old man called Benn in the East End, near the market. It was quite an adventure. I’ll tell you... .” She stopped suddenly.

  “I can’t wait,” came Richard’s dry voice over the line. “Take care of yourself, my darling. Darling, I love you, too.”

  Gillian hung up the receiver, and looked round the pretty, welcoming room. She switched on the electric fire and its golden glow was reflected in the little coloured balls shining on the tree and the glasses on the table. She had set a little home-made crib along the top of the bookcase and a string of little silver bells rippled into music as the wind touched them. But she wasn’t thinking of any of these things. She was remembering the little parcel in her handbag, the parcel she had promised old Mr. Benn faithfully she’d deliver before night.

  She looked once more at her watch. Quite apart from her promise to Richard, she couldn’t go out again. There wasn’t time. He mustn’t come and find the door closed. And yet—that unknown Christmas present that she’d accepted as her responsibility lay heavy on her tender heart. She thought desperately. Perhaps she and Richard could deliver it together this evening after dinner. But she knew Richard wouldn’t feel much enthusiasm about that. H
e had probably had a hard day—people seemed to choose the eve of public holidays to get themselves knocked out—and the weather would tempt no one but a man who expected to profit by the cold and the dark. For some reason a rhyme began to jingle through her mind.

  Another little job for the undertaker. Put through a call to the tombstone-maker ...

  Suddenly she had a better idea. She would deliver the parcel herself next morning, quite early, on her way back from church. It wasn’t likely anyone not a child would start opening presents before then. So—her spirits rose like milk bubbling up in a saucepan—she had only to let Mr. Smith know she’d be coming, and all would be well.

  There were scores of Smiths in the telephone directory, but she couldn’t find one who lived at 19, Merriton Square. She supposed dismally it must be someone spending Christmas in London. She dialed the operator and explained her difficulty.

  “The trouble is I don’t know the name of the tenant.”

  “Perhaps the house isn’t on the ’phone,” suggested the operator, cheerfully.

  “Mr. Smith rang up from somewhere trying to trace the parcel,” Gillian recalled. “Isn’t there any way ... ?”

  “There might be—seeing it’s Christmas. Hold on.”

  She held on for what seemed a very long time. Then the operator’s voice said: “It’s the Angel. Know it?”

  She shook her head before she realized she couldn’t be seen. “No. What is it? A pub?”

  “More of a road-house,” said the voice, a little doubtfully. “Big place on the corner, with a restaurant. Anyway, I’ll give you the number.”

  She scribbled it down on a pad beside the telephone.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind. I’m most grateful.”

  “Don’t give it a thought.” He rang off, and Gillian depressed the receiver and dialled again.

  “Is that Mr. Smith?” Whoever it was must have been sitting beside the telephone.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You won’t know my name, but I have a parcel for you—from Mr. Benn.

  You know who I mean? I gathered you’d left it there this afternoon and he promised to return it.”

  “Fair enough,” murmured Mr. Smith. “Where are you ’phoning from?”

  “I’m at home.”

  The voice deepened a little. “What’s up? You haven’t lost it?”

  “Oh, no, but the truth is I forgot all about leaving it—I was very late, you see, had an appointment myself ...”

  “And you’ve still got it? Is that it?” The voice sounded like Nurse Williams in one of her moods and for a moment she felt anger stir in her. Still, this was the season of peace and goodwill, so she smoothed out her voice and said, “I was going to suggest bringing it round in the morning—oh, quite early, before nine. Would that do? If it’s a present, I mean?”

  “But it isn’t a present,” exclaimed the voice, sounding dismayed. “It’s very urgent. Didn’t the old man explain? It’s a prescription for my wife; she must have it this evening. Benn rang up to say it was on the way. I couldn’t send for it, because I can’t leave her—is there no way you can get it here to-night?”

  Gillian felt exasperation rise again in her heart. A man hadn’t any right to mislay anything so important and then sound outraged because someone else had forgotten too. But she was a nurse and she knew what might happen if a patient didn’t get the right treatment at the right time, so she said: “In that case, of course, I must bring it round.”

  She rang off. She had been horribly disappointed when Richard had said he would be late, even half-an-hour’s an age when you are in love, but perhaps it was a good thing, after all. Merriton Square wasn’t very far and if she ran all the way there and all the way back she might be home before Richard arrived. Still, it wasn’t safe to count on that. Taking up the pencil again she turned over the slip of paper and scribbled:

  Darling, don’t be angry, I’ve had to go out, a matter of life and death. I hope I’ll be back before you read this, but anyway I won’t be long. Darling, I love you.

  She’d pin the note on the door where he couldn’t miss it, and leave the flat door open just a crack. The landlord wouldn’t like it, but then he need never know, and burglars wouldn’t be looking for anything worth their trouble in a house like this. On an impulse, she snatched up the pencil once more and added: “I have gone to the Angel, Merriton Square.” She didn’t know what impulse made her add that, or what a difference it was going to make to them both.

  * * *

  After Gillian had left the shop Mr. Benn lost no time in putting up the shutters and locking the door. To his surprise, he found he couldn’t forget the girl in the blue mackintosh, the girl who was such a good actress that he’d been tempted to think her coming was one of those coincidences which occur in life so much more often than writers of fiction dare ask their readers to believe. He went into a room behind the shop and began making his own preparations for the rest of the evening. When that was done he saw that it was almost seven o’clock, and on an impulse he turned on the news. World affairs didn’t interest him, but there might be something... . He sat patiently by the little radio-set while a cheerful, competent voice told about record crowds leaving the main London stations and London’s sudden black-out, and prophesied better weather for the morning. At the end came the bit he had been waiting for.

  Police are continuing their enquiries into the death of the man whose body was found in the dock on Tuesday last. He has been identified as a labourer named Eric Boxer. It is now thought that death was due to collision with a motor vehicle, the body being deposited in the water after this had occurred. Any driver or passer-by who may have witnessed an accident or any suspicious circumstances ...

  He put out his hand and turned off the radio. So they were on the trail, and the police were like their own dogs, they never gave up. When he had heard he had felt a shudder of apprehension—what Arthur Crook would have called a hunch. The boss had taken the one risk too many. He took off his coat and put on a dressing-gown, eased his feet into slippers, filled the needle... . And then he heard it, the knocking at the front door, a steady, quiet rapping of knuckles on glass. He felt himself freeze up. Steady, he thought, it’s some child—or p’raps he’d left the light burning in the shop and some officious policeman making his rounds wanted to be sure that all was well. The police were on their toes these days. Eric Boxer had been killed not 500 yards away. No one had told Mr. Benn just what had happened, but though he hadn’t had much schooling—just a native school, where you sat in a long row and learned the Koran and nothing else—he could add two and two as well as most people. Not that he could afford it for the girl. If you have any pity to spare, keep it for yourself—that was one of the lessons life had taught him.

  The knocking became more insistent. Then the bell started to peal. He knew then he had to go out. He put the needle down and went reluctantly into the shop. He recognised the man in the doorway. Pug Mayhew, they called him; he was well in with the boss, much better in than poor Mr. Benn would ever be. His big face was scowling.

  “What’s the idea of the fancy dress?” he demanded, nodding towards the dressing-gown. “More than that, what’s the game? Well, come on, out with it.” He came into the shop, slamming the door behind him, and caught Mr. Benn by the faded silken lapels. “Sold us up the river, have you? What did they give you? Enough to pay for a fine funeral, I hope. The boss don’t pay funeral expenses—in his opinion rats don’t deserve as much as a shroud.”

  Mr. Benn tried to struggle free. “I don’t understand you.” “No? How about that ring, then?”

  Mr. Benn recovered some of his lost breath. “It’s all right; she came halfan-hour ago. The stuff will be delivered by this time.”

  Pug Mayhew pushed forward, thrusting Mr. Benn back. He closed the door of the shop behind him.

  “What’s that you’re saying? Who’s been?” “The girl. The girl for the ring.”

  But he had begun to tremble.<
br />
  Pug nodded casually, as if it didn’t really matter much, after all. He let his eyes roam round the walls, examine the junk that filled the room, the bits of brass, the old stone Buddha, the ropes and the lanterns—the whole stock wouldn’t fetch £50 at an auction.

  “That’s very interesting,” he said at last, when he’d completed his leisurely survey. “About the girl, I mean. The boss’ll want to know a bit more about her.”

  Mr. Benn was staring at him, the fear undisguised in the brown eyes.

  “She came in and asked for the ring, just as I was told she would; she offered five pounds. Five pounds was right, wasn’t it? How was I to know? Do you mean that wasn’t the right one?”

  “I mean the rozzers have laid a trap and you’ve walked right into it. You old fool!” His voice changed, became savage and menacing. “Well, you’ve signed your death-warrant, I suppose you realize that. Didn’t you know they were after us, ever since they took Eric out of the water? That’s why the boss had to be so careful, couldn’t send anyone who might be recognised. They picked up the chap who ought to have come; picked him up this morning on a charge of car-stealing; that’s why I’m here.”

  “I wasn’t to blame,” stammered Mr. Benn. “She said the right things, didn’t she? Anyway, she took the stuff, she’ll deliver it. She didn’t dream—I swear ...” But his voice faltered away into an agonised silence.

  A good actress, he’d thought; the boss knows how to pick ’em. But it wasn’t the boss, it was the authorities; and he remembered the police constable stopping by the window. Wanting to make sure everything was going off all right, that she got the packet. Of course, Smith wouldn’t have it; it would be at the station. He felt a surge of impotent rage that a girl who looked so innocent could have cheated him like that. But desperately, in the face of Pug Mayhew’s threats, he stuck to his assertion.