Look Three Ways At Murder

by John Creasey

  Who did he remind her of?

  The question teased her at odd moments, while she listened to Music While You Work, finished the papers, then went into the kitchen and made herself some tea. She felt refreshed, and had tea while ironing a slip and some panties, and also a shirt for Steve. One of the things she liked about Steve was his fastidiousness over clothes; he didn’t like wearing the same shirt for more than two days, and told her that one day for one pair of socks was the most any man should allow.

  Who was that drawing like? Someone she knew, someone she had seen recently. It was like a name on the tip of her tongue. Who—?

  Gracious!

  It reminded her of Alec Gool.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sanity

  Alec Gool sidled along the empty benches in a corner of the grand stand at the Fulham Football Club’s ground, towards Steve, who was sitting by himself, hand on his chin, watching the players kick the ball about at the beginning of the game. The evening was dull and drab. Even the white of the Fulham players’ shirts looked greyish. The terraces were no more than half full, especially on the side which backed on to the river. The Thames was in flood, and the tops of sails showed as small yachts tacked up and down.

  Alec sat down as the referee’s whistle blew, and he beckoned the two captains. The visitor tossed the coin. As Johnny Haynes moved his arm to show which way Fulham would kick, there was a cheer of satisfaction from the crowd.

  “Well?” said Steve.

  “I’ve got them,” Alec said. “And they’re beauties.”

  “Got them with you?”

  “In an envelope—want to see them?”

  “Hand ’em over.”

  Steve glanced round casually. A man and two small boys were hurrying along the seats just below, nearer than he wanted anyone to be; then they clattered down a gangway, safely out of range. Steve took a buff-coloured envelope, opened it, and took out a passport. He felt it, rubbed his thumb over the mottled dark surface, smiled tautly with satisfaction and opened it. His own picture looked up at him – a poor one, taken at one of the photograph machines in a fun fair, but quite recognisable. The details were his, exactly – height, weight, colour of hair, colour of eyes, no distinguishing marks – but the name was Bennett; Joseph Bennett.

  “Okay, Steve?” Gool was eager for praise.

  “Looks all right.”

  Steve was about to unfold a certificate when there was a roar from the crowd, followed by a surge of people to their feet and another, greater, roar. “Goal!” The two boys who had just come in were cheering wildly, half-a-dozen players in white were mobbing another, while players in red were trooping back towards the centre line, as if glumly.

  Not far away, standing at one of the entrances to the stand, was Cope, Roger West’s second-in-command. Cope was clapping, but looking about him. He was first and last a policeman, and one of the reasons for being here was to watch for pick-pockets among the crowd. As the goal was scored, he let out a bellow of satisfaction, then looked about quickly. Anyone not roaring his head off or looking glum was suspect. The two men sitting half way down the stand, near one side, were not really taking any interest; he saw them glance up, and saw one of them open a paper which did not look like a pools entry form. It might be a match programme. Cope made a mental note to look at them from time to time, and watched the players in red kick off.

  Unaware of this scrutiny, Steve Stevens looked down at a forged mate’s certificate, also made out in the name of Joseph Bennett. As far as he could judge, it was perfect. It was – or it looked – an old one, and had several official stamps on it.

  “Okay, Steve?” Gool repeated.

  “You’ll do.”

  “Got anything planned yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. When and where?”

  “Wednesday. Linstone’s, Great West Road. Worth ten thousand quid. We don’t do it at the bank, we do it at the factory. You’re going to work there, Alec.”

  “What’s work?”

  “They need packers,” announced Steve. “So you can pack. The wages office is near the small goods warehouse where they need the packers. I know—I worked there once.”

  “Holding out on me, eh?”

  “That’s not so hard. There’s a strong guard—Linstone men, police and a couple of bank guards up to the moment they bring the money into the factory. Once it’s inside, they stop worrying. It’s taken into the wages office. There’s one guard inside and another outside the room, all the time the wages staff are making up the wage packets. The time for us is just after the money’s in the office and before they start splitting it up.”

  Alec glanced at him.

  There was a shout from the crowd: “Get rid of it!” Alec turned away from Steve and watched the game, still without speaking. Further off, Cope looked down and saw that the younger of the two men was now intent on the game: that looked all right. The older was putting the paper back into his pocket. Why were they sitting on their own? Why didn’t they go down the stand, where there were plenty of empty seats, so that they could get a better view?

  “Steve,” Alec said.

  “Well?”

  “We’re inside the factory. How do we get outside?”

  “I’m coming to collect some spare parts for a Stepney garage. In a plain van. That money is put on a truck to wheel into the wages office—didn’t I tell you? I’m in the warehouse, waiting for the order. You’re packing in the same warehouse. We know the right moment to strike because they put a factory guard at the door leading from the warehouse to the offices. He’s in uniform.”

  Alec was still watching the play – Haynes was weaving, a man in red shoulder-charged him.

  “Foul!”

  “Dirty work, ref. Ref! How about that?”

  Haynes went after the man with the ball.

  “There are two of us,” Alec said. “Just two. We agreed on that.”

  “Right.”

  “And how many of them?”

  “Say six or seven. It could be sixteen or seventeen, and it wouldn’t make any difference. You’ll have tear gas and smoke bombs. I’ve had some by me for a long time, waiting for the right job. Before the police can get there you and I will have the money truck. There’s only one more guard, two wages officers, a bunch of scared girls—and ten thousand quid on a truck.”

  “It’s a hell of a risk.”

  “Galling it off?” asked Steve, casually.

  Alec didn’t speak.

  “If you are, tell me,” Steve said. “If not—go and get that job at Linstone’s tomorrow morning. They’re so hungry for packers they’d take a deaf mute.”

  “I’ll case the joint,” Alec promised.

  From then on, they paid more attention to the game. Cope, who had intended to go and take a closer look, was distracted by the sight of a little grey-haired man slipping furtively away down some steps – a man whom he knew as a pick-pocket of experience and exceptional skill. He went after this man, put a hand on his shoulder before he reached the exit, and grinned.

  “Lemme go!” The protest was shrill. “I don’t feel well, I’ve got to go home.”

  “It depends what you call home, Syd,” said Cope. “Let’s have a look in your pocket.”

  When he left the ground, Cope felt that he had had a very successful evening; and Fulham had won, three-one.

  Roger heard about the arrest of the pick-pocket and the fact that he had had five wallets in his pocket, told Cope how smart he was, and turned his attention to the twenty-seven letters, from all parts of the country, saying that twenty-seven different individuals had seen one or the other originals of the composite drawings in various places at the same time. There was no useful information in any of them. He spent half an hour on the job, then pushed th
e file away. Cope, still flushed with success, glanced across at him.

  “You okay, Handsome?”

  “Don’t I look it?”

  “If you ask me, this Bennison job’s got under your skin too deep,” said Cope. “Be a good thing if you went off it on to another job. Not that you won’t, soon—the V.I.P. pressure is off, and as soon as we have a big job in, you’ll get it. How’s Janet?”

  “Fine.”

  “Mrs Bennison?”

  “Very well, I think.”

  “What’s the latest on Bennison?” inquired Cope.

  “He’s out of danger,” answered Roger. “He still hasn’t spoken and they’re still not sure what he’ll come round like.” He did not add that it would not be long before there was some positive indication of what Bennison would be like when he had recovered, physically, as far as possible. He knew that Isobel now went to the hospital for at least half an hour each day. A Yard man was always there on duty, but Roger was wondering whether it was worth keeping him there – it was more and more doubtful whether Bennison would be able to say anything coherently, still less that he would be able to give them any information which might help to find the two men who were still missing.

  At two o’clock, there was a call from Winfrifh, at the hospital.

  “The nurses say Bennison’s likely to come round any time. Thought you would like to know.”

  Roger’s heart missed a beat.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll come and see him myself, right away.”

  He told himself that his eagerness to go had nothing to do with the fact that Isobel would be there about that time. But it had. Later, he would tell Janet, would say that he had to handle it personally, so everything would be above board. It was so long since he had tried to lie to himself that he felt awkward and uneasy as he went up to the private ward. The card: Do Not Enter hung from a hook, so the nurses or a doctor was in there; that lunatic of a G.P.! He waited for a few minutes, then opened the door an inch. He heard a man’s voice, and a woman’s. At the same moment, foot steps rapped sharply on the corridor. Without turning round, he knew that it was Isobel. He closed the door and turned.

  She was very much more herself, for she had rested sufficiently during the past week to bring brightness back to her eyes, and vigour and sprightliness back to her body. She wore a bottle green suit trimmed with black, and it suited her – she dressed very well, with more flair for clothes than Janet. Probably she spent more money on them, too. She smiled at him, brightly – unfeignedly glad to see him.

  “Are you locked out?”

  “I think a doctor is in there,” Roger said. “I’m not sure who—”

  He broke off as the door opened and a short, very thickset man with a chunky face and a small red wart on the side of his nose, strode out. He wore a shabby white smock. It was Semple-Smith, and his eyes, almost black, held a glint of excitement.

  He stopped short.

  “Mrs Bennison, I was told you were likely to come in today. I think your husband may recognise you. If he does that is the most encouraging sign we’ve had. Will you go in quite normally, go up and sit by the side of the bed, and speak to him—much as you would if you were taking him some tea in bed at home. Be as matter-of-fact as you can.”

  Isobel’s hand clutched Roger’s arm.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Her tension was back, so much that it reflected in the sharpness of her voice, and in the way she looked. “Yes,” she repeated. She suddenly realised that she was holding Roger’s arm, and let him go. “Will you come in with me?”

  “I’ll stand just inside the door,” said Semple-Smith. “I would like you to be alone with him, or as nearly as possible alone.” He looked at Roger, and there was something objectionably superior in his manner. “You’re West, aren’t you? The policeman.”

  Roger said stiffly: “Yes.”

  “Can you get your man out of there? He’s like a limpet.”

  “No,” said Roger. “I can’t. If Mr Bennison is likely to speak this is the very moment we’ve had a man here for.”

  “I want him out,” Semple-Smith said coldly.

  “If you prefer it, I’ll take his place.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference who’s in there. I won’t have Bennison questioned.”

  Roger sensed Isobel watching him, sensed the irritation and exasperation of the surgeon, fought back an impulse to answer as rudely, and said quietly: “I’ll take my man’s place, I think. And of course I won’t ask any questions – no one will, without your express permission.” He moved towards the door, and opened it. Semple-Smith made no attempt to stop him. Winfrith was sitting in a corner, looking a little sheepish. Roger beckoned, and when Winfrith reached the door, said: “I’ll take over. Had anything?”

  “Just a word.”

  “Wait for me.” Roger stood aside, and Semple-Smith came in, nodded curtly, waited for Roger to take the vacant chair in the corner, partly hidden by a fabric screen. A middle-aged nurse moved the screen a little; Roger could see the man lying there. The pallor was the same, but there were fewer bandages and Bennison looked less top-heavy. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to be breathing more regularly and with more strength. There were whisperings at the door, but Bennison did not look round or open his eyes.

  Isobel stepped in. She glanced at Roger, and quickly away. Again he had that strange feeling, that she was so like Janet – that he felt for her much as he would feel for Janet in times of trouble. She looked at her best as she stealthily moved to the side of the bed. A chair was in position. The nurse stood looking over the screen from the wall.

  Isobel sat down.

  “Hallo, Paul,” she said, in a clear voice. “How are you, dear?”

  Bennison’s eyes flickered. They opened, very slowly. He was facing the ceiling, and continued to stare at it. Blankly. Semple-Smith was breathing heavily through his nose.

  “I’m here, Paul,” Isobel said. It was easy to sense the effort she made to keep her voice clear and steady. She sat with hands in her lap, staring down at her husband, with fear and anxiety and hope in her eyes. Her lips were unsteady, her fingers working.

  Bennison turned his head towards the direction of the sound. He stopped. He frowned. Isobel smiled and bent a little closer. In that moment from that angle she was quite beautiful.

  “Hallo, darling,” she said. “It’s me. Bel.”

  Bennison’s lips moved, and he smiled. Semple-Smith’s right hand descended on Roger’s shoulder and gripped – Roger doubted whether he knew what he was doing.

  Bennison whispered: “Bel.” Not Isobel, just the last syllable. He kept smiling. “Bel” he repeated. The hand outside the bedspread moved, and Isobel took it gently, her own suddenly quite steady. She was as gentle as Janet when one of the boys was ill.

  “Yes, I’m here, Paul.”

  He seemed to draw in a deep breath, and then spoke quite clearly:

  “It’s good to see you.” Pause. “I’m sorry—I’ve worried you.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling.”

  “It must have been—terrible.”

  “We knew you would be all right. It was just a matter of waiting.”

  “Waiting,” he said. “I know. Waiting.” He made the word a sigh. “How—how is young Paul?”

  “He’s fine, darling.”

  “Fine,” echoed Bennison. “And—the others?”

  “They’re fine, too.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “You shall, as soon as possible.”

  “Bel,” Bennison said again, and smiled more deeply, the corners of his lips turning down in a way which was almost droll. He seemed to relax, and closed his eyes slowly. After a moment, Isobel leaned forward and put her lips to his forehead. When she drew back, Bennison’s hand was very lim
p in hers, and his eyes were still closed.

  “That’s enough, he’s gone off again,” Semple-Smith said, in a hoarse whisper. “He’ll be all right, though. Thank God.”

  Isobel looked up. There were tears in her eyes, and they began to spill over her lashes. Roger remembered when he had last seen her crying and distraught – she wasn’t distraught now.

  Semple-Smith moved towards her.

  “He’ll come round again soon. Sure to. Can you stay at the hospital, so that we can have you here in a few minutes whenever he does come round?” When she didn’t answer, he went on: “He said ‘Bel’ when he first came round—said it several times.”

  “That’s all I’ve got down, sir,” said Winfrith. “Bennison kept saying ‘Bel’. I’ve got it down as the ordinary word ‘bell’. That’s what it sounded like.”

  “It was good enough,” Roger said. “Take your corner again, will you?”

  “If the old pig will let me?”

  “Semple-Smith?”

  “It isn’t often I want to tear a strip off a man, but—”

  “I know,” said Roger. “Don’t worry, he’ll be all right.” He watched Winfrith go into the ward. A moment later Semple-Smith came out, with Isobel. She was trying to smile now. She didn’t look at Roger; it was as if he wasn’t there.

  “… of course I’ll stay here for as long as necessary. I can sleep in the ward, if that would help.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the surgeon. “Just be at hand.”

  “Will I be able to telephone a neighbour so that my children will be looked after?”

  “Of course. From the Sister’s office.”

  “Thank you,” Isobel said. She looked at Roger, and although he would never be able to find words for it, he realised that something had happened to her, something had changed her attitude towards him completely. It was almost as if she was looking at a stranger. Her smile was bright but formal. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “Wonderful!”