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

by Anthony Gilbert

  “If she wasn’t the one, she wasn’t in with them. She said she’d leave the parcel, and she meant it.”

  “Did she? You know, Benn, I don’t think the boss is going to be pleased when he hears you’ve given away the address of the headquarters. Has Smith telephoned to say it’s O.K.?”

  “No. No, not yet. But—why should he? He ...”

  Pug Mayhew pushed the little man out of the way as if he’d been an old sack or a broken chair that’s only fit for the rubbish-heap, and indeed the analogy was a pretty accurate one. Like his boss, that ruthless criminal who was making his pile out of the weaknesses and the corruption of his fellow creatures, Pug had no use for people when they ceased to be profitable. He strode into the back room and snatched up the telephone. Mr. Benn watched him from the doorway. He couldn’t make a bolt for it, not in a dressing-gown and slippers, and it wouldn’t have helped him, anyway. He was pretty sure in that moment he wasn’t going to be one of those fortunate enough to die in his own bed.

  Pug was talking to Mr. Smith. “How long ago?” he repeated, and looked across to Mr. Benn. “How long ago did this girl leave?”

  “About half-an-hour—but there’s a fog ...”

  “Not now, not bad enough for you to lose your way. And don’t tell me there are no buses running, because I know it. You could walk to Merriton Square in half the time, supposing you wanted to get there, that is.” He hung up the telephone receiver.

  “Funny thing,” he remarked, and now his tone was almost conversational.

  “Your lady friend never reached the Angel. And do you know why? Because she never meant to go there. She laid a neat little trap and you walked into it, like a bloody mouse. And you know what happens to mice when they go into traps? Or haven’t you even the guts to put them down? Well, I’ll tell you. They get their bloody little necks broken. And you’re nothing but a mouse, are you, Benn?”

  The little brown man shrank back. Keep away from me; his lips formed the words, but they remained inaudible. He knew Mayhew was speaking the truth, that to him this outcast from a foreign country, this landless man, was of no more account than a rat or a mouse on which he’d put his great boot without a second thought.

  Pug Mayhew had taken up the telephone again, called another number. When he had finished that conversation he took a knife from his pocket and deliberately cut the wires.

  “You won’t be needing it any more to-night,” he explained. “We’re going for a little walk together, you and me. Because, you see, that stuff never reached our friend at the Angel, and any minute now you may get another visitor, an official one this time, and the boss doesn’t want to give you the chance to squeal. He don’t like squealers, Benn.” With a sudden gesture he drew his hand across his throat, sawing at it, and uttered the loud, terrified squeal of a dying pig. “So we think, him and me, it ’ud be a good thing if you weren’t here when they come.”

  He made a last desperate fight for his life, though why, he could hardly have told you, since it was worth so little, even to him.

  “That girl was honest,” he said. “She’ll deliver the goods to the Angel. She must have lost her way.”

  Pug Mayhew laughed. “Well, it doesn’t matter really either road. She’ll be taken care of. Smith’s got his orders. She’s like you, Benn—expendable.”

  He saw the hypodermic lying on the table, picked it up and tossed it contemptuously into the grate. “O.K. O.K. You won’t be wanting that any more, and we oughtn’t to put temptation in the way of the innocent.” He let out a yelp of laughter. “That ’ud make the Commissioner howl, wouldn’t it? An innocent rozzer. Come on. There’s a way out by the back, isn’t there?”

  Mr. Benn shivered. The back way led, eventually, to the river, the same water wherein Eric had been found, and where soon he, too... . He thrust the thought away, looking longingly at the shattered syringe. That might have been his way, if he’d had the courage to take it—might have taken it long ago for all the value his life had had all these years.

  “Coming?” suggested Mayhew. “Nothing to wait for now.” And, hypnotized, helpless, he crossed the floor, passed into the passage, and their feet could be heard ringing on the stone corridor.

  * * *

  Back in the Angel Mr. Smith was dialing Benn’s shop, but he got nothing but an angry hiss for his pains. When at last he got hold of the operator he was told the number was out of order.

  “It wasn’t out of order ten minutes ago,” he insisted.

  “P’raps someone’s cut the line,” grinned the operator. “Christmas Eve’s the time for good, clean fun.” He rang off, laughing. Arthur Crook, that black sheep among lawyers, might have reminded him that many a true word is spoken in jest.

  Smith sat thoughtful for a moment. He’d wanted to tell Pug that the girl had just telephoned and the stuff was on its way, in spite of the bloomer old man Benn had made. For Smith knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that someone had blundered. This girl hadn’t the smallest idea that she was passing dynamite. After a bit, and with some trepidation, he rang another number, one that didn’t appear in the book, and made his report. When he heard what the boss had to say he rang off again and became very busy indeed.

  When Gillian came out into the street she found the fog was a pale greenish haze in place of the brown blanket it had been an hour before. All the same, there were no buses running.

  She sent one beseeching glance up and down the road, but this time there was no cruising taxi, so she set off at a brisk pace in the direction of Merriton Square. From her window on the ground-floor of Gordon Street, old Miss Beachcroft watched her go, and wondered what it felt like to be young and pretty, and so obviously in love, and with so much to do you were in and out like a jack-in-the-box. She was an old woman now and she lived vicariously in the lives of others.

  “Gone to meet that young man of hers, I suppose,” sighed Miss Beachcroft.

  She was going to spend Christmas Day alone, as Mr. Benn had planned to do; for her, like a lot of other solitary people, Christmas was just another Sunday, without any newspapers.

  Church bells were ringing as the girl hurried through the empty streets. It made her think of childhood, when they’d all been at home together, they

  who were all scattered now; they used to decorate the church and polish the brass, and Mother had a big sit-down tea for all the helpers, and then they

  trooped into the church to listen to Daddy reading evensong, with that glow that he never lost right up to the end. When he announced the promise of salvation for mankind it was always with the same throb of incredulous anticipation in his voice. For him the Christmas story never became dulled or blunted; every year the miracle was renewed... .

  Remembering the past, she reached the Angel before she realised it, had actually walked by the door before the significance of the lights and the traffic and the sound of the wireless came home to her. She turned back, then hesitated, paralysed by shyness. Girls she knew went in and out of bars as readily as they went in and out of shops, but she’d never been like that. She looked about for a private bell, but couldn’t see one. Two men were watching her with amused eyes.

  “After you, girlie,” said one of them, and with the colour rushing into her cheeks she preceded them into the bar.

  A good many people were standing or sitting at the counter, exchanging badinage with the girl behind it. Others sat at small tables, with their glasses in front of them. After the foggy streets the interior presented a cheerful, gay picture. But Gillian’s mind was filled with a gayer picture still, the room waiting for Richard, decked as eager as a lover. She looked about her uncertainly, then approached the bar. The girl was too busy to take any notice of her at first, and a man she’d never seen before offered her a drink.

  “Christmas Eve,” he said.

  She smiled and moved away; then, catching the barmaid’s eye, she asked:

  “Do you know if Mr. Smith is here?”

  There was a sort of chuckle from the
girl. “If he said he would be I dare say he is.” She looked at the men nearest her, saying: “Any of you gentlemen called Smith?”

  One of them said in gallant tones, “I could be, if the little lady doesn’t mind.”

  “It’s very important,” gulped Gillian. “I telephoned ...”

  “If he’s stood you up, dear, don’t you have anything more to do with him,”

  said the girl (she must have been thirty, but we’re all girls nowadays). “It’s a shame... . Look, dear, you sit down and give him five minutes, and then if he doesn’t come you go out and find yourself someone more worth the trouble.”

  “No need to go out,” said the man who’d spoken before. He was in the happy stage of drinking, didn’t mean her any harm, she had the wit to see that, but, all the same, it was fortunate Richard wasn’t here. Richard had a high-flying temper, struck first and looked all-round the situation afterwards.

  She went reluctantly towards a little table, and stared round at the coloured streamers and the balloons that puffed up and down on the smoky air. Anger began to overlay her nervousness. She’d come out at great inconvenience because of a man’s carelessness in leaving a parcel in a shop; the least he could do was be waiting for her.

  “The very least,” she repeated, not aware that she spoke aloud.

  “The least shall be first, is that it?” asked a voice so close to her that she jumped. “Did I startle you? Sorry. I believe you may have something for me.”

  She hadn’t even seen the man approach. Somehow he wasn’t a bit what she’d anticipated—an anxious, not very young man worried over his wife.

  This one was good-looking in a brash sort of way, good teeth, smiling eyes. “I say, is that what you bought at the old man’s?” He looked down at the blue ring. He was wearing rather a showy ring of his own.

  “Yes. It was lucky, in a way, that I went in, wasn’t it?”

  “Nice.” He put out a casual hand and touched it. Quickly she produced the little parcel and put it into his hands. “I mustn’t stop, I’m expecting someone.”

  “I’m sure he’ll wait. You can’t go without a drink.”

  “Oh, please.” She half-rose. “I ought to be back before now.”

  “O.K. O.K. Matter of fact—where did you say you lived? Oh—Gordon Street? I’ve got a friend here, got his car, going that way. He’ll give you a lift.

  Yes, of course it’ll be all right,” as she started to protest. “Pleasure for him.”

  She subsided; it would be pleasant not to have to walk back.

  “What’ll it be? A sherry? I’ll get it.”

  She saw him move over to the counter, to return a minute later with two glasses in his hands.

  “Happy days!” He lifted his glass and drank. Gillian looked disturbed.

  This cheerful little chatterer didn’t seem to fit in with her notion of a man troubled about his wife’s illness. He was ready to hang about the bar and had no sign of anxiety about him. She drank the sherry quickly.

  “What took a girl like you down to Benn’s place this afternoon?” asked her companion suddenly.

  She was so much surprised that she answered the question at once.

  “I was told there was a stall in the market where I could get something I specially wanted and couldn’t find anywhere else.”

  “Then I hope you found it,” he said heartily. “All the same, Benn’s not exactly in the market.”

  “The fog came on and I missed my way. I found his shop quite by accident,

  because there was a light in the window.”

  “That was lucky. Pity I wasn’t there to show you the way home.”

  He must have recognised the flicker of distaste that shadowed her features, for he said in a coaxing way, “Just my fun. Christmas only comes once a year, you know. And you’re a sweet kid to have fagged out with this.” He touched the pocket into which he’d put the little parcel.

  Embarrassed, she looked over his head and in the long strip of glass behind the bar she saw the swing-door open a few inches and a face peer in. It hung there for a moment, then caught Mr. Smith’s eye and nodded slightly. He nodded back, and the face slid away again.

  “I’ve just had the wigwag that your chariot awaits,” said Mr. Smith with sickening facetiousness,” so if you’re ready ...”

  She jumped up so quickly she almost spilled the sherry in his glass.

  “I dare say there’s someone waiting for you,” said Mr. Smith, putting an unnecessary hand on her arm to guide her to the door. A big, red-headed man, with eyebrows like another fellow’s moustaches and wearing a suit whose shade would hardly have disgraced a fox, watched them go, with a frown. He hadn’t any girls of his own, having never even got around to finding a wife (and what some woman’s been spared is more than she can guess,

  he would acknowledge generously), but if he had had a daughter of that age he wouldn’t have cared for her to be knocking about in a bar like the Angel,

  with that particular chap in tow.

  “Still, not my pigeon,” acknowledged Arthur Crook.

  He’d no idea how soon he was going to have to eat his words.

  * * *

  Outside by the kerb the great black-and-chromium car glistened in the lights from the Angel. Mr. Smith opened the door with a flourish and Gillian stepped inside. It was quite dark and she hadn’t realised the car already had an occupant. She started to apologise, but someone invisible said it was quite all right. Then Mr. Smith shut the door and the car drove away. Gillian lay back; she had a headache coming on, due to the smoky air, she supposed, or the sherry perhaps, that had been uncommonly strong. Something bothered her, something that wasn’t quite right. They had been travelling several minutes before she realised what it was. No one had asked her for her address. She shifted to lean forward and tell the driver where to go, but before she could speak she blacked out. Someone put an arm round her: a voice said “O.K.”

  “Never drink with strange men,” said the moralists. And how right they were.

  * * *

  From her vantage-point at her ground-floor window old Miss Beachcroft was intrigued to see the young man, Richard Fyfe, come rushing up the street,” as though the bears were after him,” she said afterwards, and jump the steps two at a time. So that pretty creature, Miss Hinde, hadn’t gone to meet him, after all.

  The eternal triangle, thought Miss Beachcroft, cosily. Say what you like about the crowds and the expense and the loneliness of being an old woman in London, still there remained a lot to be said for living there. Something was always happening. She glued her ancient nose to the window-pane.

  Richard had rung three times with no result before apprehension stabbed him. He was about to ring once more when he heard a door close by being pulled open and feet sounded in the hall. The next instant the old witch from the ground floor, whose proper home, in his opinion, was a blasted heath, pulled the front door wide.

  “If it’s Miss Hinde you want,” she ogled him, “she’s gone out. She went about half an hour ago, and she’s not back yet.”

  “Oh, I think you must be mistaken,” said Richard at once. “I spoke to her on the telephone a little while ago; she’s expecting me.”

  “I dare say she ran out for something she’d forgotten. There are still a few shops open—Christmas Eve, you know. Perhaps you’d like to come in and wait.”

  He thought if her appearance was anything to go by—old red brocade dressing-gown, fur-edged slippers and a tarnished silver scarf—her room would be as appetising as one of last year’s birds’-nests.

  “Thanks very much,” he said, quickly, “but I’ll just go up. She may have left me a message or something.”

  He caught a glimpse of the room as he went past, and it was just as he’d supposed. A tray of unwashed tea-things, a patience half set out, a pair of corsets on a chair—Jill ought to see that, it would warn her what happened to women who hadn’t anyone to keep a home for. The note she had left was pinned on the door and he rea
d it with growing concern. He knew the Angel, knew it wasn’t Jill’s cup of tea at all. And she hadn’t said a word about it when he rang up. If she wanted to buy something to drink she need have gone no further than the very pleasant little pub at the corner. He stood irresolute for a moment—didn’t even notice the door was ajar, then, stuffing the note into his pocket, came down again. Miss Beachcroft was standing at the doorway of her room, expectant as a vulture waiting for something to die.

  “There was a message,” he told her, since it was obvious she wasn’t minded to let him go without a word. “I’m going along to meet her.”

  There were quite a number of girls at the Angel when Richard arrived, but none of them remotely resembled Gillian. He looked about him, perplexed, irritated, more apprehensive than ever. He must have missed her after all, and yet—there had been so few people in the streets and no traffic to speak of, certainly neither buses nor taxis. No, she must have tried to take a short cut, which involved going through a number of narrow back streets, and either she was home now or else she’d irretrievably lost her way. This Christmas that was to have been so perfect—a rehearsal, she had said, for their life together that was going to start so soon—had got off on the wrong foot.

  His eye, glancing this way and that, caught the responsive gleam of a bright brown eye belonging to a man who, if you’d never think of comparing him to Adonis, was sufficiently remarkable to hold the attention. He had a big, red face, spiky red brows, red hair, and a red-brown suit. Catching Richard’s gaze, he leaned forward to say, “Looking for someone?”

  “A girl,” Richard acknowledged. “I was to pick her up here.”

  “You young chaps are a rum lot,” said Crook, candidly. “It’s not precisely the rendezvous I’d choose—not for a nice girl, as I’m sure yours must be.”

  Then, with no change of voice, he added, “What did she look like?”

  Richard tried to describe her, but his best friend must have acknowledged he made rather a hash of it.

  “Flashing a handsome blue ring?” asked Crook, sympathetically.