by John Creasey
“Sorry about your oranges,” Roger said.
“No need to worry about that any more, sir. Mr Revel made it up to me.”
“Oh,” said Roger. “That’s good.” After a pause he added: “Do you know Mr Revel?”
“Everyone in the market knows him,” declared the porter. “Been around here a lot longer than most of us.”
“Yes, of course,” said Roger.
Mrs Gossard, the woman clerk who had seen the attack, was inclined to be over talkative, but very positive, and her descriptions of the two men who had attacked Bennison and flung him into the lorry were very precise. In a curious way, her prolixity combined with matter-of-factness gave the incident an additional touch of horror, particularly as she said: “I do assure you, Superintendent, I have never in all my life heard a sound like the sound of that poor man when he hit the floor of that lorry. It was enough to break every bone in his body. I hope I never hear anything like it again.”
“I certainly hope not, too,” Roger said.
The porter whose eye-witness account he had read first, was ready to go home, and waiting about at one of the fruit wholesalers’ in the market. He was a casual worker, a big, husky, black-haired man who badly needed a shave. A tooth was missing on the right hand side of his mouth, and his other teeth were uneven, although very white. In spite of the heat, he wore a choker, tightly-knotted, a reefer jacket and a pair of blue serge trousers. There was something of the manner of a sailor about him – almost a piratical air. He was sitting on a pile of boxes and the roller shutters of the shop were almost on a level with his head. The shop, Green & Co., specialised in produce from South Africa.
The porter’s name was Calwin.
He repeated his story with gusto, but without standing up – his manner seemed to say that he wasn’t going to stand up for any policeman; it was a kind of controlled truculence.
“Thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Now, let’s see what you missed, as well as what you saw. Did you—?”
“I didn’t miss anything!”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I never. I’ve told you more’n one of your flat foots would, in the circs.” The man stayed seated, now downright truculent and almost aggressive.
“Not on your life,” Roger said. “Our chaps are trained to observe. What—?”
“Are you telling me I didn’t keep my eyes open?” Calwin rose slowly to his feet. Roger noticed that he had very big but well-kept hands. “Listen, copper—”
“Did you see the knife?”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Did you get a good view of it?”
“I’ve told you I did.”
“What hand was it in?”
“Eh?”
“What hand was it in—his right or his left?”
“His—his right, of course.”
“Sure?”
“What?”
“Are you sure?”
The porter, half a head taller than Roger, who was six feet plus, looked down, frowning. He had small, clear brown eyes, and a very hardy weathered complexion. He wrinkled his nose, then put his finger to a nostril, and scratched. There was a silence which seemed to last for a long time, before he answered: “Yep. Right hand.”
“Thanks. What pocket did he take it out of?”
“He took it out of his belt—and don’t ask me whether I’m sure or not. I am sure.”
“Good. How long was the blade?”
“Eh?”
“How long was the blade?”
The porter said thoughtfully: “Proper artful, aincha? I’d say six inches, but it’s only a guess. I only got a glimpse of it. Don’t expect me to have photographic eyes, do you?”
“Yours aren’t too bad,” Roger conceded, and grinned. “Let’s see if I’ve got it right. The knife was in the killer’s belt. He used his right hand. He waited for the messenger to draw level, then jumped him, drawing the knife out, and stabbing him so quickly that you didn’t have a chance to see the knife very clearly. You only caught a glimpse of the blade.”
“That’s right.” Calwin looked wary, as if not sure exactly what this was leading up to. “Just a silver flash, that was all. I saw it go in.” He was not quite so matter of fact as he tried to make out.
Roger glanced round, espied a sliver of wood about the size of a carving knife, leaned across and held it out to the man.
“Show me, will you?”
“Listen, what’s so important?”
“Just show me, and I’ll tell you.”
The big man scowled, and was obviously puzzled and wary. A small man in a light grey overcheck suit and a bowler hat watched intently from the back of the shop. Calwin moved a little sheepishly to one side, between two piles of crates.
“He was in the shop doorway, like this, see—you going to be the victim?”
Roger moved. “Yes.”
“Go over there a bit—that’s right.” Calwin waved. “Now take three steps forward, see? … As you’re stepping out, you bellow something, what was it? … Look out, that’s it, look out. You’re staring at Bennison, see, and the cove who’s attacking him. Look out! you bellow, to warn Bennison. Then this cove took out ‘is knife—”
Calwin jumped out, snatching the stick of wood from under his coat and stabbing in one swift, sweeping movement. The point of the sliver actually pressed into Roger’s ribs, and he felt a scratch of pain. Calwin drew his hand back quickly, and drew away.
“You’re no actor,” he jeered. “You ought to have collapsed by now. That’s exactly—”
He broke off.
Roger saw Simpson standing just in front of the shop, the top of his head hidden by the shutters. With him was a woman, half a head shorter, fair-haired, attractive in a wholesome way, but with no colour in her cheeks and a curious brightness in her eyes. Her hands were clenched by her sides. He realised, even before Simpson told him, that this was Mrs Bennison.
Chapter Five
The Wife
As he moved towards them, ducking under the half-closed shutters, Roger thought: Bennison’s dead. The woman looked up into his face without speaking, and he had a strange feeling – that she was looking for something which she did not expect to find. Simpson coughed, and said: “Mrs Bennison came along to see Mr Kent. She would like a word with you, Superintendent.”
“Her,” breathed Calwin.
Roger held out his hand. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” As he spoke, he wondered almost desperately if he were right, if he had to condole. Until he was told what had happened, he could say nothing about it. “I intended to see you later in the day.”
She took his hand; hers was cold, and her grip like a spasm.
“After I’d been to see your husband,” Roger went on.
She didn’t answer. Simpson seemed struck dumb, the fool. Had Bennison died? Had his death brought her here? Had it put the glitter in this woman’s eyes and robbed her cheeks of colour?
The little man in the shop called: “Would you like to use my office?”
Mrs Bennison let her hand stay icy in Roger’s for what seemed a long time, until he was almost embarrassed. Then she snatched it away.
“If you would like to sit down—”
“I must go home, before my children get back from school,” she said. “I wanted to say—”
Roger had to interrupt: “How is Mr Bennison?” He glanced at Simpson, looking for a hint as to whether this was the wrong thing to say, but Simpson gave him no clue.
“The doctors say they won’t know until this time tomorrow whether he will live,” Mrs Bennison answered. Her voice was low-pitched, still controlled. “Why did you let it happen?”
“Let it,” Calwin echoed, in a loud whisper.
“I don’t quite un
derstand you,” Roger said, but he was afraid that he did.
“I should have thought it was quite simple,” said Mrs Bennison. “This kind of vicious attack is a commonplace today. It happens two, three, four, sometimes as many as a dozen times a week. Why don’t the police stop it?” When Roger made no attempt to give an immediate answer, she went on in a higher-pitched voice: “Why do you allow it to go on and on? Don’t you realise what happens when a crime like this is committed? Don’t you realise that even if my husband does recover, he may be—crippled.” She choked. “He may be blinded. He may never be the same man again. Can you imagine what the effect of that would be on my children? Or on me?”
Her voice was beginning to quiver, as her self-restraint began to fail.
The easy, the obvious thing would be a platitude, rather like a gentle pat on the shoulder, or a momentary clasp of her hand or her arm. She was looking at him fixedly, it seemed as if only the two of them were here, although traffic passed and people walked by; and a policeman hovered.
“This isn’t a game,” Mrs Bennison said hoarsely. “It isn’t play acting.”
She had seen what Roger and Calwin had been attempting to reconstruct, of course, and that had helped to create this attitude, had helped to stiffen her resolve; but now her voice was quivering much more.
“A long time ago, Mrs Bennison, when I was much younger,” Roger said at last, “I was investigating a case against a particularly dangerous criminal, a man who really stopped at nothing to get what he wanted, and to escape from the police. Among the things he did was to take away one of my sons—then a lad of about your younger son’s age.” He paused, before adding very gently: “I spent three days, going over the actual circumstances of the kidnapping—trying to reconstruct it time and time again, because I believed that it was the only way to help to find my son, and also to find the criminal. It did.”
Before he had finished, tears were spilling down Isobel Bennison’s cheeks.
“Will you take Mrs Bennison to my car?” Roger asked Simpson. “I’ll drive her home. I won’t be long.”
Her home was very much as he had expected, and like his own in Bell Street, Chelsea. There was a garage, on the left, with crazy-paving wheel paths leading to it from the double gates. A diagonal path led to the front door. The house was about the same period as his – the middle-twenties- but this was built of yellow brick, whereas his was of weathered red. The roof was of red tiles, like his. The lawn was beautifully kept, and the flower beds showed the work of a gardening enthusiast. He could almost hear himself saying to Janet, his wife, that he would cut the back lawn tonight.
It was half past two.
He did not know whether to believe her, but Mrs Bennison had said that she had had some sandwiches and coffee at the hospital. Roger had let her talk on the way here, driving himself and sending his man back to the Yard. All the shock, all the horror, all the buried fears of the last ten years had come to the surface. Time and time again she had said:
“… I was always afraid of something like this, but Paul laughed at me, and I tried not to talk about it too often. I hated Friday. Every time I saw a story about a wages snatch or a bank robbery, I felt as if he was the victim. I wondered what I would feel if I were the victim’s wife, what it would be like if my children were orphaned.”
She was steadier, now. As she opened the front door two women came hurrying in from across the road. A small crowd of people were gathered near, and an elegant young man with a camera appeared from the back garden.
“Isobel, my dear—”
“How is Paul?”
“Just one moment, please.”
“How anyone can be so heartless?”
Soon, they were inside, the two women following Roger and Mrs Bennison. The crowd was being kept back by a policeman, and Roger thought fleetingly that the man would soon need reinforcements. Mrs Bennison introduced her neighbours: a Mrs Beaumant and a Mrs Abbott. There were eager offers to look after the children, to take them into their homes; Isobel wasn’t to worry. How was Paul?
“They say there is a good chance,” Mrs Bennison announced, her voice quivering again. “Mr West—”
“I’ll go straight to the Yard and find out, and I will tell you exactly how your husband is,” Roger promised. “If I can do anything at all to help, just let me know.” He didn’t shake hands, but went out, glad that the neighbours were so quick off the ball and so good; he shouldn’t be surprised, most neighbours were.
The elegant young man had his camera poised.
“Just one moment, please.”
One day, some hysterical woman or some crazed man would smash that camera, now thrust forward with such insistence.
Roger had a word with the two policemen now on duty, hearing two lads say excitedly: “That’s Handsome West.” He went back to his car and drove off slowly.
Once on his own, he could think, but the thinking was mostly a kind of brooding, of letting thoughts run through his mind. When Mrs Bennison had said: “Why did you let it happen?” in that bitter way, she had stabbed a metaphorical knife into his mind. The accusation was wickedly unfair of course – here he was, thinking “wicked” again – yet so understandable. None of the general public could understand the odds the police were up against. Even today, since the pay increase had brought the establishment nearer to normal, it was like trying to tell in advance which one of a handful of tossed pebbles would hit a certain spot.
He had once calculated that there were thirty thousand firms in the Metropolitan Police area, all drawing wages on Thursday or Friday. The number which paid by cheques was still negligible; both firms and workers seemed to have some prejudice against it. Thirty thousand wages bags – and possibly, possibly, ten snatches in a week. There simply wasn’t any way of making sure that some did not succeed. There was no way of watching every one all the time. There was little anyone could do, except the big companies with their armoured vans and security men, beyond taking normal precautions. Revel & Son had taken as many as most.
There simply wasn’t a way, not one yet discovered anyhow, of making sure that such crimes were not committed. The one thing the police could do was to find the criminals quickly. He had to. From the beginning, there had been something special about this case, and he believed he knew what it was: the amount of money stolen had been so small, comparatively – it had shown how vulnerable every single wage collector was. Now he had to show the criminals how vulnerable they were. He felt a sense of dedication.
His mind was buzzing with the things he had to do. He pulled off the main road, switched on a small tape recorder which ran off a battery, and dictated notes swiftly: Check Harry Myers – the absent guard.
Check other firms who draw their wages from the same bank every Friday.
Get descriptions of the three men out to the Divisions and Home Counties today.
Have a try to reconstruct the faces.
Check the West Ham company whose van was stolen.
Check contents of the plastic bags – the sweepings from the scene of the crime.
He wanted to press on urgently with each of these at once, but first had to make sure that he forgot nothing. He finished the notes, and drove to the Yard. He had a clear run, for the rush hour was still a little way off. He hurried up to his office to find Cope putting down the telephone.
“Well, that’s one definite thing,” he reflected. “Harry Myers is in bed with ’flu all right—I’ve just talked to his doctor. No fake there.” As Roger crossed to his own desk, Cope went on: “And we’ve checked the West Ham firm over the stolen lorry. No doubt it was stolen—it was reported to the Divisional chaps half an hour before the job was done in Covent Garden, but as it was on loan, and didn’t have Medley’s name on, it was difficult to trace. The driver was having lunch.”
“That early?”
“A ma
rket man often has lunch at our breakfast time. We just want those four, Handsome. No doubt about that.”
“We’ll get ’em,” Roger said. The remark was almost mechanical, and the kind of banal comment which he often criticised in others. Cope didn’t seem to notice it. “Anything in from the hospital?”
“No. But Simister says will you call him.”
Simister was a fairly new Home Office pathologist with a growing reputation, that curious mixture of doctor, surgeon, research worker and detective which makes the great pathologists. Roger did not know him well as an individual, but respected what he knew of his work. He hesitated between calling the hospital or Simister, and plumped for the medical man, who was up in the laboratory.
“Oh, yes, West.” In manner, Simister was always a little aloof, as if not quite sure of himself – unless it was a kind of snobbery. If it was, that would soon be rubbed off by contact with Yard men. “I have the report on the man Blake—the Covent Garden murder. There are one or two points which I think we should talk about.”
“Whenever you like,” Roger said.
“Will you come up to me?”
“I’ll be up in ten minutes,” promised Roger. He put down the receiver, and lifted it again almost at once, calling Campbell, whose secretary answered.
“Mr Campbell is with the Commissioner, Mr West.”
“Tell him I called, will you?”
“Yes, Mr West. I wonder if—” The secretary, a woman in her early fifties, did not ring off at once. “You won’t think me an old busybody if I tell you that the Commissioner seems very worried indeed about this wages snatch, will you? Apparently he spent some time with the Home Secretary this morning, and there are some repercussions in Parliament. The thing is—I’m not talking out of turn, am I?”
“Right in turn, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“I hoped that was how you would feel. The situation, as I understand it, is that there is a strong feeling among members of Parliament that now the police are practically at full strength there shouldn’t be so much of this kind of crime. Some kind of protection should be organised. It’s bad luck that the trouble’s blown up over this case.”
