Look Three Ways At Murder

by John Creasey

  “Yes, very,” said Roger. “Keep in touch with any more ominous signs, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I really appreciate it,” Roger said, and hung up.

  “If you ask me,” said Cope, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “they’re making the fuss because this was a little job with a lot of repercussions. If that chap Blake hadn’t been bumped off—”

  “You’re half right,” Roger interrupted.

  “What you mean is, you half agree with me,” retorted Cope. But he grinned good-naturedly. “Simpson rang up from West Central and said you went home to see Mrs Bennison right. How’s she taking it?”

  “Better than most,” Roger replied. “I’m going upstairs to the laboratory.”

  Simister was rather tall, lean, a little aloof in manner, and big horn-rimmed glasses added to that suggestion of aloofness. He had small, regular features and a controlled Cambridge voice, speaking most of the time without moving his lips very much. His hair was thick, black, wavy – really quite beautiful – and he had a good if rather sallow complexion. He was wearing a long white smock, the breast pocket packed with pens and pencils. When Roger stepped into his office, a small one off the main laboratory, Simister stood up.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “Would you care to see these?”

  He handed over the autopsy report on Blake.

  It was very straightforward, and the single knife thrust had gone straight to the heart. The actual wording of the report had a preciseness and lucidity which made it vivid. Roger read it twice, before handing it back.

  “What do you make of it?” he inquired.

  “It was a remarkably accurate thrust,” observed Simister. “No fumbled first blow, and clean between the ribs. The victim was wearing only a thin shirt and no vest, so there was nothing to impede the blow—no buttons, no pockets containing oddments. Death was undoubtedly instantaneous. The victim was in very good condition for a man in his early sixties, very healthy indeed.”

  “The kind of wound we’ve seen before in certain particular circumstances,” Roger remarked.

  “I thought you would see that. The wound is typical of those caused by in-fighting between experts. I would say that you are looking for a man with a great deal of experience in using a knife at close quarters, a man who wanted to make sure that the job was finished quickly. In other words—a trained soldier, a commando, a marine—almost certainly someone with a lot of specialist training in the armed forces.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. “That could be very useful.”

  “I hope it is,” said Simister. He moved to a window which overlooked the courtyard and the tops of the buildings in Whitehall; they could just make out the tanks and pipes on top of the Charing Cross Hospital building. “Do you know Semple-Smith?”

  “The surgeon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve met him, on a case. That was some years ago.”

  “He said he remembered you,” said Simister. “He has been operating on the other victim, Bennison.”

  Roger felt his body go tense.

  “What does he say?”

  “He thinks that Bennison will live, but is doubtful whether he will ever be wholly fit again. The head fractures are very complicated, and there is a possibility of them causing some deterioration in Bennison’s mental faculties. In addition—”

  “Do you mean he might go mad?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Simister, rebukingly. “Nor did Semple-Smith. But he is a surgeon of great experience, and feels that there might be this deterioration. The degree of it varies. Sometimes there is little more than inability to concentrate, sometimes the patient finds it hard to work for long stretches. There’s no certainty about the outcome, but I thought you should know.”

  After a pause, Roger said: “Yes. Thanks. What else were you going to say?” The face of Isobel Bennison seemed to hover in front of his eyes.

  “I was about to add – in addition there are other multiple fractures – particularly in the left leg and thigh, and the left arm and shoulder. As far as it is possible to judge, Bennison landed with great force on the corners of some wooden boxes. There is at least a possibility that the left leg will have to be amputated. Semple-Smith isn’t doing that part of the job – Henderson is. Whatever way you look at it, Bennison is in a very bad way.”

  Isobel Bennison’s voice seemed to ring in Roger’s ears: “Why did you let it happen?”

  “One of the problems is what to tell the wife,” went on Simister, very formally. He took off his glasses, and revealed eyes which looked pale and weak. “It isn’t wise or possible for Semple-Smith or Henderson to be too reassuring. On the other hand, it would be wrong to tell Bennison’s wife too much—the situation may not prove to be as bad, in the long run, as looks likely now. Are you going to see Mrs Bennison?”

  Roger answered slowly, painfully: “Probably.”

  “Then Semple-Smith and I would appreciate knowing what you think of her, as a person. How much she can take, in other words.”

  “I’ve seen her already,” Roger told him. He was keenly aware of the other’s intent gaze, and the weak eyes seemed to grow stronger. “She won’t be satisfied with smooth reassurances. I think—” He hesitated, telling himself that this was no part of his duty, that it would be a mistake to assume any responsibility; but that woman’s face still hovered. “I think I would tell her that for a week or more it’s likely to be fifty-fifty whether he lives or dies. It will be better for her that way. She’ll know the risk and face it. The other—”

  What Simister and Semple-Smith meant, of course, was that they feared that Bennison might become an idiot. Roger felt tensed up, and icy cold.

  “That’s very useful,” Simister said. “Semple-Smith and I are old friends. We trained together. He is to see Mrs Bennison this evening. He’ll be glad of this advice.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  After a long pause, Simister asked: “Have you any idea who did this, yet? They were a vicious gang—very vicious indeed.”

  “I know.”

  “I wouldn’t like to think they were going to give a repeat performance,” Simister went on.

  “What makes you say that?” Roger asked sharply.

  “Isn’t it obvious? They got five hundred pounds, to share among four of them. Hardly a fortune, is it? I imagine that they are very disappointed, perhaps bitter and resentful about it. If they are, they may strike again very soon.” When Roger didn’t respond, Simister gave a little tittering laugh. “I’m afraid I’m going outside my province. But the simple psychology of men like these—”

  He broke off.

  “I wish we could be sure that it was so simple,” Roger said, and repeated formally: “We’ll soon get them.”

  From the way he looked, Simister was disappointed with the banality of the remark. For in truth it was a kind of cri de coeur. “We’ll get them,” meant “I’ve got to get them.”

  Chapter Six

  Try Again?

  “What I say,” said Marriott, “is that we’ve got to do another job, quick. We didn’t get enough from this one to lie low for a bit. How long will a hundred quid last us? Couple of weeks, if we take it easy—that’s the lot.”

  “Might stretch it to three,” said Mo Dorris.

  He was the last man in London to have such a feminine name, for he was ugly, and any redeeming feature had been battered out of recognition during his early days in the ring. No one should have allowed him to become a boxer, even a chopping block, but his youthful ambitions and his vanity had persuaded him that, given the right manager, he would become a world champion. His cauliflower right ear, his broken nose, his missing teeth, and the shiny swelling over his right eye, with the scar marks of a dozen stitches, were permanent proof of the inadequa
cy of his managers and the incompetence of his trainers. It was some time since he had boxed, and the only legacy he had from the boxing days – apart from his appearance – was physical fitness. Even in the ring, he had been able to take it, and since then he had kept himself fit. It was almost impossible to make him cry quits.

  “You agree we ought to have another go?” asked Marriott.

  “I can’t wait,” Dorris agreed.

  They were sitting in a different cafe, near the docks, late that evening. The cafe was nearly full. Blue-grey tobacco smoke was thick and stinking, teenagers chattered over coffee and eggs and chips, hamburgers and hot dogs. A juke box kept playing, on and off; now it was droning Mac the Knife. Three very short girls with exaggeratedly pointed breasts were at the bar, serving as waitresses, each wearing a ludicrously short skirt, well above the knee, each given the job and doing the job because she would attract the “men”. Outside, the street lamps of London’s dockland were just lighting up; it was half past nine.

  Marriott and Dorris were in a corner, speaking in low pitched, conspiratorial voices.

  “What do you think Steve will think?” asked Marriott.

  “Who cares?” demanded Dorris.

  “I care.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Dorris. “If you want to worry about a long streak like that, you can worry. I’m not worrying. If he hadn’t used that knife—”

  “He had to stop the guard, didn’t he?”

  “He didn’t have to use that knife.”

  “Well, he used it.”

  “And look where it’s got us,” complained Dorris. “We’ve got to lie low for a coupla months, and we haven’t got the dough to do it on.”

  Marriott gave a sudden flash of a grin.

  “Might have to work!”

  “Don’t talk to me about work.” Dorris grinned too.

  In their way, these men were good friends. They had been to school together, and had left at the age of fifteen. They had gone to work in the docks together. While Dorris had boxed, Marriott had led a small, squalid, rather brutal and not very effective gang. Dorris had joined the gang, later, and by brute strength cowed all the others into accepting Marriott’s leadership. It was a fact that he still regarded Marriott as the “brains” of any outfit they belonged to. They had migrated to crime easily, at first restricting activities to pilfering from the docks, then becoming bolder and carrying out one or two raids on isolated shops in London suburbs, gradually aiming higher, dreaming of one big deal which would see them in clover for months. They had talked and dreamed of it, and this deal today should have been the one.

  Five thousand pounds was the kind of target they regarded as really big.

  But they had needed a getaway car, or lorry, and so a driver. They had also needed someone to look after any guard who was around.

  Alec Gool was a young cousin of Marriott, and Gool had introduced Steve Stevens to them.

  Since they had divided the proceeds of the robbery, they had not met the other two.

  Marriott would not admit it in so many words, but he was uneasy about Stevens. He did not like Gool, who was a lot too big for his boots, but thought of the youth as a kid who could easily be handled. Stevens wasn’t a kid. There was something about the way he looked at you—

  There was something about the way Steve looked at her, Joyce Conway thought. She did not quite understand it. She had seen naked desire and lust in many a man’s eyes, and knew what it meant and how to deal with any situation that it created. She knew how to handle maudlin drunks, women-hungry sailors, sex-starved men who had been in prison for years. These people she knew all about, and in a way could feel sorry for them. She was not surprised and certainly not shocked that a lot of girls and some women of her own age were content to satisfy these men, sometimes for love, sometimes for the physical thrill, more often for money or a good time, but she wasn’t having anything to do with that kind of thing.

  She had always kept her self-respect; she governed her life by the need for it.

  It had been difficult, since Tom had died twelve years ago. Twelve years. Sometimes, in fact whenever she thought of it, she found that hard to believe, it seemed at once so long and yet so short a time. Occasionally she would try to picture what he would look like today, if he were alive. In a funny way, she thought he might look like Steve, but with a difference. He’d had the same lean kind of face and features as Steve, even his eyes had been the same pale grey, but in a way those eyes of his had always caressed her.

  There was nothing gentle about Steve.

  There was the difference, of course; Tom had been a gentle, kindly man, almost too soft-hearted. Steve was hard and unyielding. Tom had never really known what he wanted – in fact he had not wanted anything more than his little home and his family and a job – whereas Steve knew exactly what he was after, and meant to get it. She sensed that. He was a handsome eagle of a man, she could imagine that when the right moment came he would swoop on his victim without mercy. And yet something about him fascinated her; something about the way he looked at her, as if he were saying:

  “I’m waiting for you. You won’t escape me.”

  Perhaps, she told herself, she was making it up. Perhaps he didn’t think much about her. At least he didn’t seem to have much to do with the whores, or any of the girls who flung themselves at the heads of the sailors who had come fresh from a voyage with their pockets lined. Stevens was aloof; different; and it was that difference which attracted her.

  Joyce had been barmaid at the Hornpipe for eight of the years of her widowhood. That was how she came to know so many men, and what the girls were like, which women were faithful to lovers or to husbands, and which would flit around men like drunks round the bar. Over the years she had won a respect which no one really challenged these days – it must be a year since anyone had even tried to get fresh with her. Except at Christmas, of course, there was always a bit of kissing and cuddling at Christmas, and it often stirred a memory of desire, but she soon forgot it again. A single bed was only lonely if one missed one’s man.

  She was thirty-seven.

  Both her children had been born before she was twenty. Richard was now in Australia. He had gone on a merchant ship and got off in Sydney and stayed there. Now and again he sent her a little present and now and again wrote a scratchy airmail letter, but she had a feeling that he would never come home. Jennifer was married, had two children of her own, and lived out at Harlow New Town. When she had first gone to live there, close to her husband’s job, she had come in to London once a week regularly, but now it was once a month, and a third baby was on the way.

  Joyce Conway didn’t mind.

  She was free of the responsibilities, after doing all a widowed woman could for her children. You couldn’t make children good or bad, of course – she had seen too many try – and she had been lucky. Jennifer was a good girl, and always would be. Richard was a bit wild, she couldn’t imagine him sticking to one woman for long, but he would do no one any harm intentionally. In any case, Joyce now had only herself to worry about.

  The first man to make her think of a man for a long time, was Steve Stevens.

  It was a year since he had first come into the Hornpipe with two other sailors, standing head-and-shoulders above them in height and appearance. Apart from his lean good looks, he was clean-shaven – freshly shaven, too. He wore a good suit, and it fitted perfectly. He had manners, usually. True, his eyes had dropped to her plunge line pretty quickly – Jack Harris, the boss, liked the barmaids to attract the male eye, it made sure of custom – but Stevens hadn’t made any cracks, and hadn’t leered. She remembered that for a few nights after he had been in she had half expected him, and glanced up whenever she had time and the door opened; but he hadn’t come for two weeks. By then, she had stopped looking.

  After his seventh or eighth visit
, he had asked her to go to a matinée in the West End with him.

  The curious thing was that he hadn’t asked the obvious questions, hadn’t said much at all. They had been to matinées several times since, he’d bought her chocolates, been the proper gentleman, and yet there was something about the way he looked at her – on the bus, in the taxi he sometimes sported, in the restaurant after the Hornpipe was closed and she could relax. She knew that he had learned nearly everything about her, she talked so much out of the depth of her loneliness; but apart from the fact that he was a merchant seaman who worked as little as he could, she knew little about him. She knew he had once been in the Royal Navy, he had let out the fact that he had been in some minor action in the Far East, China or somewhere; but that was all. He lodged with a family in Dick Street, near the main docks.

  He didn’t come in for a drink every night, but she always looked out for him, now.

  Tonight – the night of the murder of Charley Blake and the terrible injuries of Paul Bennison – she wondered if he would come. It was nine o’clock, and much quieter than usual. Three big ships had sailed on the afternoon tide, and a storm in the Atlantic had delayed others from arriving. So she was able to keep glancing at the Evening News, which she kept on the shelf beneath the bar. The shiny wooden handles of the taps were on her right and left, and she could serve mild and bitter, stout, dark, any one of eight varieties of beer almost without looking at the handles themselves. She could take any one of the usual spirits off the shelves behind her almost by habit, too. She had grown so accustomed to the sour odour of beer and the sharper one of the spirits, the thick tobacco smoke, the curious salty, tangy, sweaty stink of so many of the men, that she hardly noticed them.

  The headlines ran:

  WAGES GUARD DEAD