by John Creasey
“I am very pleased,” Roger said, as formally.
“It’s wonderful,” she repeated, and dabbed at her eyes. Then she turned to Semple-Smith. “Doctor, there isn’t any reason to fear for his mind now, is there?”
“No,” Semple-Smith said. “No.” They walked along the passage together until they came to the Sister’s office. He tapped on the door, the Sister appeared, there was a hurried consultation. Roger walked past. He had a sense of remoteness; a sense almost that an era had passed. It was very, very strange. He reached the top of the stairs, walked down, and blew his nose very hard.
As he passed the reception office, a porter called out:
“Superintendent West?”
“Yes.” If this were an urgent call from the Yard it was exactly what he needed.
“Mr Semple-Smith would like you to wait for a few minutes, sir.”
“Oh.” Here was the surgeon, giving orders again. It was tempting to say that he was in a hurry, but the thought was almost small-minded, Roger decided; he would wait for five minutes, anyhow.
“Can I smoke?”
“Oh, yes, sir. And I’ll bring a chair.” Physically, Roger was quite comfortable. Mentally, he was disturbed and dismayed – dismayed because the change in Isobel Bennison had stung so much. Where had he been going? How far would he have gone?
He found himself sweating.
“I’ve got to get a hold on myself,” he said in a whisper. “I’ve got to get things straight. I want the killer, because it’s my job. That’s all.”
He began to think with fierce concentration, and as always on this case, he came back to the question: why had the lean man killed so quickly?
Roger stubbed out a second cigarette. As he did so the surgeon came from another passage, dressed in a navy-blue blazer, light flannel trousers, stamping down with iron-tipped heels; he looked and walked rather like a navvy.
He drew level with Roger.
“Damned good thing up there,” he said. “Taught me in future never to breathe a word about this kind of thing to anyone—I ought to be more like a policeman, and keep my thoughts to myself. Well, I’m off home. Had a hell of a morning. Started at half past two trying to save the life of a man who got drunk and drove at a hundred miles an hour. Had three emergencies since then, all heads. Just as I was going off I heard about Bennison. We must have a drink one day. Good afternoon.”
He stamped on.
Roger stared after him – and began to smile.
Roger went straight back to the office. Nothing new was in. He took out the files on the Covent Garden case and went through them again in detail. He kept making notes, until gradually his mind cleared and he began to move along one specific line of inquiry.
Why had Charley Blake been killed so quickly? With differing degrees of emphasis the eye-witnesses’ statements all said the same thing – there had been one swift, savage thrust. Until now, Roger had told himself that the obvious reason was that the killer had meant to take no chances; the whole job had been ruthless. But could the killer and Blake have known each other? It was a guess, but it would fit the statements. Supposing, on the instant of meeting, recognition had shown in one man’s eyes? Wouldn’t that explain a swift murderous thrust from a ruthless man?
Roger kept working at it, sorted out all the files to do with Blake, Marriott and Dorris, and stuffed them into his brief-case. He left the office at half past five, earlier than usual. For once he had a good run home, in spite of the rush hour. As he pulled into the garage, he heard the clatter of a lawn-mower. He went quietly to the back garden.
Martin was pushing the mower, and looking hot and sticky. Richard was trimming the edges of the lawn. Janet was on her knees at the herbaceous border which ran along one fence. Something made her look up; as she did so, she seemed so young, so eager.
Her eyes lit up.
“Roger!”
“Oh, hallo, Dad.” Scoop stopped the machine immediately. “Dad, what about that motor-mower we were talking about?”
“Hi, Dad!” called Richard. “These edging shears want doing something to. What do you think happened today? I beat Simpson at table tennis …”
“I’ll bet you couldn’t beat me,” Roger said.
There was a lilt in his voice, excitement born of emotion which hadn’t been in him for a long time. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He saw Janet’s eyes light up again. When he told her what had happened at the hospital, he could tell that she was delighted. He did not think she had the slightest idea that he had been so preoccupied with another woman.
What the hell was the matter with him? He had come very close to making a fool of himself.
One thing was certain, he repeated again; he was going to find Charley Blake’s killer simply because he was a copper.
Janet went to bed early.
Roger took the papers out of the brief-case, and sank himself into the reports.
If the killer had recognised Blake, the obvious course was to find out who, among Blake’s friends or acquaintances – perhaps fellow seamen – could be described as tall, lean and sharp-featured. He studied the reports which men from the Yard and the Divisions had prepared. The dossier on Blake was remarkably thorough. He had not been to sea for five years. He had worked at four places since then – always as a watchman or a guard.
Roger made a note of the places.
Hoover Ltd. – Western Avenue Wimpey’s – building site at Wembley Linstone’s, Great West Road – Car accessory and tyre manufacturers
Revel & Son Ltd. – Covent Garden.
“We can cut Revel’s out,” Roger said musingly. “We’ll have a go at the other three.”
He knew only too well that it was the kind of job which would probably turn out to be a complete dead-end, but finding Charley Blake’s killer was a matter of honour, as well as his job.
“It’s okay,” Alec Gool said into a telephone. “I’ve landed the job, it was as easy as you said. Now I’ve seen the lay-out, there’s no trouble. But I’ve got a suggestion to make, Steve. Or should I call you Joe?”
Steve, standing in the call-box just outside the Hornpipe, said smoothly: “I’m Steve until after we’ve finished this job. What’s the suggestion?”
“Wait for a week. I’ll watch what happens tomorrow, and be able to make sure we don’t make any wrong moves. I’ll get to know the place—might see some snags that don’t show up yet. How about it? I can lend you twenty if it would help.”
“We’ll wait,” said Steve.
He stepped out of the call-box, looked along the narrow street, and saw Alec step out of the corner shop – he had telephoned from there. He didn’t look round. Steve stood still a few minutes, before turning into the pub. He had a week on hand which he hadn’t planned, but he told himself that young Alec had a wise head on his shoulders, while he himself had nearly made the fatal mistake of acting on impulse again. He always wanted things done yesterday.
He grinned as he stared across the saloon bar, where Joyce was drawing dark ale. She glanced up, caught his eyes, and gave the quick, pleased smile which she reserved for him. He strode across. No one else was waiting to be served.
“What’s yours?” she asked.
“Whisky-and-soda,” said Steve. “I want to get my strength up.”
She laughed, poured the drink, pushed a syphon of soda towards him, and then produced a copy of the Daily Mirror from the shelf beneath the bar. It was folded to the composite pictures, and so that when he glanced down at them, he saw them.
The glass was half way to his lips. He held it there poised for a moment, and an icy spasm went up and down his spine. Then he put the glass to his lips and tossed his head back.
“That one on the right,” Joyce said. “Isn’t it like Alec Gool?”
Chapter Sixteen<
br />
Big Snatch
“I can see what you mean,” Steve said carefully, “but I shouldn’t have recognised the likeness myself.”
He sat at the kitchen table, leaning back a little on his chair, outwardly quite calm. Joyce was pouring coffee. It was surprising how easily and naturally they lived together – at moments like these, there was a cosy intimacy which in some ways was better even than being in bed together. He had come on ahead, and had been waiting for her. She pushed the brown sugar towards him.
“But it is like him, Steve, isn’t it?”
“In a way, I suppose it is.”
“You don’t think it’s him?”
“From what I know of Alec Gool he wouldn’t have the guts to take part in a wages snatch or to rob a blind man,” said Steve. “He likes life easy. Too easy.” He put a small spoonful of sugar into the cup, stirred, then sipped his coffee. “What about the other one? Got anybody in line for him?”
“No,” said Joyce. She glanced down at the newspaper, but not very intently; she had looked at it so much in the past two days that she could almost shut her eyes and picture it. “No, I can’t say I have. Have you?”
“I knew a chap named Bennett who was like him – we were on a ship on the East African run. Now he would have cut his own mother’s throat for a five pound note.” Steve laughed, and sipped more coffee. “Talked to anyone else about this, Joycey?”
“No,” she replied, quite matter-of-fact. “I wouldn’t like to start a rumour even about Alec Gool. You know how fast they spread. But if you’d agreed with me—”
“I tell you, I can just about see what you mean.”
“Well, if you agreed with me altogether, it would be different.”
He looked at her over the rim of his cup.
“How would it be different?”
“Well, we’d have to do something about it, wouldn’t we?”
“Would we?”
“Well, if he killed a man—”
“Joyce,” Steve said, “don’t turn stool-pigeon for anyone. That’s one thing I couldn’t take. Understand? What Alec Gool or anyone else does is no business of ours unless we get mixed up in it—and I don’t intend to. I’ve seen too much happen when people start squealing. I’ve seen pretty women like you who telephoned the cops, being rushed to hospital a few days later, their cheeks cut open—or their eyes closed for the rest of their lives with vitriol.”
“Steve! Don’t!”
“I don’t want anything to happen to your face, I like it too much.” Steve leaned across the table, took her face in his hands, drew her forward, made her purse her lips and kissed her lightly. “It’s a very nice face,” he said, “and you’ve got beautiful eyes. Didn’t I tell you?”
She managed to say through her pouting lips – lips kept in that shape by his hands:
“I believe you did happen to mention it, once upon a time. It was a long while ago, though.”
“And it will be a long while before I tell you again,” said Steve. “Make the best of it.” He let her go. “Heard anyone at the pub talk about young Alec?”
“Oh, they say he’s a queer.”
“By queer, you mean a homosexual,” said Steve. He wrinkled up his nose. “Don’t worry about calling a spade a spade or a homo a homo, Joycey. You due for a holiday?” The question came out so unexpectedly that for a moment Joyce could only sit and stare.
“Well, I am really, but—”
“Take it, right away,” ordered Steve.
“But Mr Harris—”
“Never mind Harris. You’re the best bar-maid in London, and he ought to know it. I’m going to sign on again next week. Money’s running low. I won’t be away for long—a couple of months, maybe—and I’d like to have a honeymoon before I leave.”
“Honeymoon!” Joyce cried.
She saw on the instant that he hadn’t meant that literally, and she was too suddenly and acutely disappointed to pretend that it didn’t matter. After her cry, the end of the word seemed to echo about the kitchen. “Honey—moooooon!” She had raised her hands in the momentary excitement, and they were still in front of her. Very slowly, she lowered them; as slowly, she shifted back in her chair. All the time, Steve stared at her, his eyes expressionless, all the humour, all the drollness gone.
At last, Joyce looked away.
“I’ll get some more coffee,” she said, and pushed her chair back.
“Joyce—”
“It’s all right,” she said, getting up and stepping to the gas-stove. “I should have known you weren’t a marrying man. It’s all right.” Her hand was only a little unsteady as she poured coffee into her cup. She turned round. “More for you?”
Steve stood up, took her cup away, then dropped his hand to her wrist.
“Joycey—”
Now she looked him straight in the eye.
“It’s all right, I tell you. I should have known better. You don’t owe me anything—you’ve never made me any promises. I can’t help it if I love you so much, but—I’m not a fool. How long have you to go away for, do you say?”
He didn’t answer, but held her wrist.
“I tell you it’s all right. Steve!” She tried to free herself, but the grip of his fingers was like steel. Slowly, he drew her towards him, and she could not resist his physical strength; after a moment she did not try.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” he said. “I’m not the marrying kind—I’ve never been married and I never expected that I would want to be. You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who even made me think about it. But I’m not right for you, Joyce. Not as a husband. I’m no good to anyone as a husband. I live my life the way I’ve got to, and it doesn’t have any room for a—good woman.”
She didn’t speak.
“What I meant is that we could do with a few days holiday out of London. It would be almost the same thing as a honeymoon. I thought we might go to Brighton, or Bournemouth. Like a few days holiday, with me?”
“I’m not sure I can get the time off.”
“Just walk out on Harris. He’ll take you back with open arms.”
“It’s no use, I’m not sure,” Joyce said. “Let me think about it, Steve. Do you want more coffee, or don’t you?”
After a long pause, still holding her, he said: “So it’s like that. Okay, sweetie, you think about it. I’ll leave you to sleep on it, in fact. Only don’t forget this—say yes, say no, it won’t make any difference to the way I feel about you. I’ve never met a woman I liked more or respected more, and if I never had another woman in my life I’d be satisfied.” For the first time since that cry of “Honeymoon!” his eyes took on a spark of humour. “In bed or out of bed, you’re the tops for me. I’ll be seeing you. Be ready with your answer any time after nine o’clock in the morning.”
Her heart and the coldness which he had put into it, were already melting.
“Steve—”
“’Night, sweetie,” he said, and gave her a hug and a squeeze and a kiss on the forehead. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, and fumbled it, as if he was upset, too. He put it on, and went out. He moved with such speed that he was closing the street door before she reached the end of the passage from the kitchen. She hurried into the bedroom, in time to see him walking past the window, but did not know whether he glanced at the window or not. She stood for a long time, pale light from a street lamp softening her features, gleaming upon the tears in her eyes. Her heart beat very fast; there was a kind of ecstasy that was also pain.
At last, she went back to the kitchen.
“If you’re not careful you’ll lose him altogether,” she said. She picked up a coffee cup, and noticed the Daily Mirror and the drawing of “Alec Gool” again. There was something about the way the light fell on the drawings which made t
hem look different, and the second man, the man whose face was only half-finished, seemed to come more alive. As she stared, an awful flash of suspicion entered her head. Was that Steve?
She snatched the paper up. The likeness – the swift, passing likeness to Steve faded.
She moved to go to the stove and the sink – and kicked something which slithered along the oilcloth. It was small and dark – a book of some kind. She bent down and picked it up, and saw the coat of arms on the front, the name Joseph Bennett on a white inset at the top, a number below. In gilt lettering there were the words British Passport. She thought vaguely, idly, that it was strange Steve should have another man’s passport in his pocket. She opened it – and Steve’s face was there in front of her. It wasn’t really a good photograph but was unquestionably of him.
“Steve,” she said, in a puzzled voice. “What’s on?”
She looked at the page opposite the photograph, and glanced down, saw the signature Jos. Bennett. She was so intent and so bewildered that she didn’t hear the slight sound at the door. She did not hear the very soft footfall. She stared down.
“Steve,” she repeated.
“Want me?” Steve asked.
She jumped wildly, and swung round, the passport still in her hand. He stood in the doorway, the top of his head touching the lintel. She had never seen his face so set, so stern, so severe. He did not move, yet he gave her the impression that he was going to pounce on her.
“I dropped something out of my pocket,” he said. “My passport.” At last he moved. He did not look away from her, and she experienced a shivery kind of fear, but didn’t shrink, just held it out to him.
“I wish you hadn’t looked at it,” he said.
“So—so do I.”
“Didn’t know my real name was Bennett, did you?”
“Your—real name.”
