by John Creasey
The hotel, one of the best on Brighton front, was an old-fashioned one. Steve had taken the best room available, with that terrace overlooking the sea, and at night the swish and sizzle of the water through the pebbles on the beach kept her pleasantly and drowsily awake just long enough for her to appreciate the fact that Steve was lying beside her in the big double bed.
He didn’t snore, that was one thing! In those days so long
ago, Tom had snored.
They had been to Ice Follies, at the Rink, and were strolling home, arm-in-arm, with the stars and a half moon shining on the calm sea. London, distant lands, doubts and suspicions and fears were all forgotten. Lights blazed from the hotel. Cars were parked outside it, and a few men and girls stood about.
She noticed a man on his own, and heard a hissing sound, as if someone was trying to attract their attention. She looked round. For a moment she thought that Steve was edgy – his arm seemed to stiffen – and then he relaxed.
“You go up to the room,” he said, when they were in the hotel. “I want to find out about the coach trips tomorrow. When I get upstairs I shall expect to see you in that shameful new negligee—”
“Don’t say things like that so loud, Steve!”
He laughed, and saw her to the lift; in little courtesies he treated her as a real lady, and she had neither suspicion nor premonition of trouble as she went into the room. A maid had turned down the bedclothes, and the new black negligee, bought only that afternoon, was on it, looking beautiful.
Joyce’s eyes glowed.
Downstairs, outside among the cars and in the shadows, Steve said to Alec Gool: “What the hell are you doing here, you bloody young pup?”
“Take it easy, Steve,” Alec protested. “You’ve got a shock coming to you, and you had to know quick.” Before Steve could comment, he went on: “Unless you’d rather get it from the busies.”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Getting nervous?” Alec said, but behind the jeering in his voice there was a sense of urgency. “Let’s take a walk.”
They walked down to the beach, where only the couples were now, many lying close together in the shelters, some in the shelter of the boats drawn up away from the sea.
“Steve,” Alec said, “that copper West was at Linstone’s this afternoon, asking about anyone who knew Charley Blake. You knew Charley Blake. I often wondered why you put that knife in his guts.”
Steve didn’t speak; his feet crunched the pebbles.
“I tried to get everything out of the manager, but he’s an old flicker. Wouldn’t come across at all. But West was around for a couple of hours or more. And I heard the manager mention you.”
Steve caught his breath.
“Sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
After a pause, Steve said softly: “It’s time you knocked that grin off your face. If we’d done that job this morning, when I wanted to, we could have been away by now.” He felt the soft breeze off the sea on his face. Haze misted the lights at the ends of the piers and at the hotel when he glanced up towards it. “So they got round to naming me as a pal of Charley Blake.”
“I told you so. I often wondered—”
“Well, you can stop wondering,” Steve said. There was a shocked edge to his voice. “The moment I saw Charley I knew he recognised me. If I hadn’t put him away we wouldn’t have had a chance. It was too late to back out after they started on Bennison.” He wiped his forehead. “That means they’ll get on to me.”
“That’s right,” Alec said. “You won’t be able to fool around with li’l old Joycey any longer. Your—”
“If you talk about Joyce I’ll break your neck.”
“Eh, eh, eh!” protested Alec, backing away. “Serious as that, eh? All right, forget it – I didn’t mean any offence. The truth remains—you’ve got to hide somewhere.”
“I know it.”
“I know a place,” said Alec.
“Where?”
“There’s an Australian ship in at Matt’s Dock—came in last night. The skipper’s okay—it’s the ship I think we could get out on, next Friday. The skipper would let you sign on for the trip now. If you get there by night, no one will see you on board. How about it?”
“I don’t want to panic,” Steve said.
“Who’s talking about panic?” demanded Alec. “I saw the way they handled the dough at Linstone’s, and you’re dead right. With tear-gas, handled the way you said, it’s a cinch. You could come off the Fernando next Thursday morning, pinch a van and drive straight from there to the factory. It wouldn’t be any problem. You’d get past the gateguards without any trouble—they wouldn’t be looking for anyone coming away from a ship. Then I could take the van in later and we could get aboard after dark. How about it?”
Steve said, slowly: “I’ll say one thing for you, you’ve got guts. Some of the security men might recognise me but I can fool ’em with a moustache and cheek pads. They won’t see me for long.”
“It’s our big chance, Steve.”
“Sure. This Aussie skipper—”
“I can fix him.”
“Okay,” said Steve. “I’ll go and get my things and make some excuse to Joyce. Then—”
He broke off. In the dim light, Alec was staring at him, and there was a subtle change in the youth’s manner. He stood with his eyes narrowed, and in a curiously aggressive attitude as he said:
“No dice, Steve.”
“No dice, what?”
“You can’t see Joyce any more.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool! All my clothes—”
“I wouldn’t trust you with her for five minutes,” Alec said. His voice was very soft and there was a note of menace in it, perhaps also a note of fear. “You’re gone on her, and you’d let something out. It’s bye-bye, Joyce. You won’t need all those slap-up clothes, anyhow. I’ve got a car waiting, Steve.”
They stood motionless for a long time. Steve Stevens was thinking about Joyce – and much, much more. There was the danger, the incredible fact that the police had got on to Linstone’s, that he had led them to the factory by killing Charley Blake. So there would be a search for him under the name of Stevens – which meant that the police would know where to look for him tomorrow. They would talk to a dozen people who could name him.
He knew their methods only too well. They weren’t brilliant, but they got their man – and unless he was very careful, they would get him. Alec was right; the cunning young slob was smart, and he had never been smarter than about this. The sensible thing to do was go away with him.
He could telephone Joyce. By tomorrow the police would question her, so she would know the truth about him, she would soon get used to it. If things had been different he might have married her, but now – he had to face cold, brutal facts.
Alec was right – except for one thing: he didn’t know that Joyce knew the name on the passport.
Chapter Eighteen
Decision
Not far away from the spot where the two men stood, a girl sat up, and said: “Look what you’ve done to my bra.” A man murmured something lazily, and the girl giggled. On the beach itself, a six-some of teenagers walked with their hands linked, their footsteps strange and almost eerie in the shingle. Here, the silence between Alec and Steve was so great that Steve’s breathing was audible.
“You don’t have any time to think,” said Alec. “This is a must.”
“Shut up,” Steve said.
“I tell you—”
Steve shot out his right hand and clutched the youth’s neck so tightly that Alec gave a choking gasp, and his body sagged. Steve didn’t let go. In that moment rage took hold of him and was almost ungovernable; he could have squeezed and squeezed until the life died out of the youth. Alec clutched at his wrist, the
n kicked at his knees and caught him on the shin.
Steve let him go.
“You must be crazy,” Alec muttered hoarsely.
“No one tells me what I’ve got to do,” said Steve. “I’m going to see Joyce. I’ve got something to say to her. She’s reliable.”
“Reliable? She’ll squeal as soon as—”
“I told you to shut up,” Steve said. “I meant it. I’ll be back in half an hour. Where’s the car?”
“Listen, if you tell her where you’re going—”
“I won’t tell her a thing she doesn’t know,” Steve said. He turned away. “Where’s the car?”
“It’s—outside the hotel.”
“Be there in half an hour,” ordered Steve.
He walked ahead, stumbling over shingle, striding up the ramp, then on the promenade. He looked across at the hotel. There was a light on in his room, of course, but the blind was drawn, and he could see very little, although there was shadowy movement against the blind.
He didn’t go straight across the road, but strode along the promenade, trying to think clearly. That passport mattered. Once he was across the Channel, he would need it. Wherever he went, he would need it. He had to slip out of the skin of Steve Stevens into that of Joseph Bennett – the transition was his whole future. With that passport and that certificate he could get anywhere, but if the police knew the alias, then every port, every ship, all the customs authorities would be alerted. He had no doubts about the thoroughness of the police once they were after a murderer.
His whole future depended on that new identity – and Joyce knew about it.
He was sweating.
If he walked out on her now, she would tell the police. If he told her the truth, sooner or later she would tell them – being what she was, it would eat into her conscience, unless – unless they were together.
If they got married –
That wouldn’t do. The police would not be able to make her give evidence against him, but that wasn’t what he needed to prevent. It was that fateful piece of knowledge that mattered: the alias.
He ought to make sure she could never tell the police; he ought to kill her.
He was still walking. Up here, near Hove and the residential part of the district, fewer people were about. He noticed few of them, although he did see two policemen walking along together. One was whistling faintly. Steve took no notice of them, reached a place where the promenade was under repair and a deviation was necessary, and stopped. This was as far as he should go. He stared out to sea – his sanctuary.
Yes, he ought to kill her. He had three murders in his past, one more should make no difference.
Kill her?
How did he know that she would go to the police? She loved him, didn’t she? He felt differently towards her than he had to any woman in the past, and if she loved him, would she betray him? He was listening to the insidious voice of Alec too much; what did the kid know about older people, about mature men and women?
He swung round and started back, and as the lights of the hotel drew nearer, his stride lengthened. He could see the light at that corner window; Joyce would be wondering what had happened to him.
The disquiet which was never far away was back with Joyce, seeming worse because she had been so happy during the evening; and she believed that Steve had been, too. She kept remembering that hissing sound – had someone been attracting his attention? Once her thoughts started wandering, all the old half formed suspicions came back. Alec Gool’s likeness to that picture, the fleeting likeness of Steve to the other, the alias, his attitude. There was so much crowding her mind and she did not want to think about any of it, but every moment that Steve was away brought more urgently worrying thoughts.
The floor creaked, outside the door – it always did.
Was this Steve?
The handle rattled, and then turned.
She slid out of bed quickly, knowing he would want to see her standing in her negligee. It was soft, clinging, lovely, voluptuous. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror; it was almost transparent.
Steve came in. She expected his eyes to light up the moment he saw her. She expected him to stop with his fingers on the door, eyeing her up and down in that bold, wicked, wonderful way of his.
He closed the door, looking into her eyes; his gaze didn’t drop.
“Joyce,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of here.”
She drew in a deep breath.
“Get dressed, quick,” he said.
She could hardly believe it – but almost at once the fears which she had known when at home came crowding back.
“Steve—”
“Don’t argue! Get dressed quick.” He strode towards the bathroom door, stopping in front of the case which was open on a stool just by it.
“Listen, Steve.”
He swung round on her, his eyes blazing.
“Do what you’re told!”
In all her life, she had never been talked to like that; never. She had never known a man look as Steve looked now, either; as if he hated. But fear was cut away, anger blazed up in her – born of shock, of disappointment, of the fear. Instead of moving to her clothes on a chair, she raised her hands in front of her breasts and said sharply:
“I won’t do any such thing! And I won’t be spoken to like that.”
He said: “Why, you—” and suddenly moved towards her, his hands outstretched, fingers crooked as if he would curl them round her neck. She was so shocked that she couldn’t even back away.
“Steve!”
He actually touched her neck with his hands, and his cold fingers sent a shiver through her body. She struck at his arms, and dodged back, banged her thigh against a corner of the dressing-table, and gasped with pain. At least she freed herself.
“Steve,” she whispered. “What’s got into you?”
He stood with his hands outstretched but some of the tension gone from his body. The glitter had faded from his eyes, too. He licked his lips. She could not tell how beautiful the terror had made her, and still made her.
He said in a grating whisper, as if the words were being forced out of him:
“I’m in trouble. The police might be here soon—certainly by the morning. I’ve got to get out of the country.” He made himself look at her. “I ought to kill you.” There, it was out. “Because you know about that passport. But I can’t. I can’t. Joyce—we’re going away. I know a place we can hide out until it’s blown over. Then we’ll get out of the country. You and me. We can get married. We can live together.” He was pausing between each word, now, as if the power which had driven him to say this was gradually dying. “Joyce—we’ve got to get away.”
She could ask him why: she could want to know what crime he had committed. She stood there, hands crossed in front of breast, white body showing so vividly through the black negligee. If she did ask – God knew how much longer he could stand it. He ought to kill her.
She said: “All right, Steve. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.” No questions, no arguments, just quick and ready acquiescence; of course he could rely on her!
“I don’t know whether the skipper of the Fernando will take a woman on board,” Alec muttered.
“He’ll take this woman,” Steve said. “You concentrate on your driving.”
He sat next to Alec as the little Ford hummed towards London. Joyce sat in the back, her eyes closed except at odd moments when she looked at the back of his head.
She had committed herself now; her life was his.
The photograph of Steve Stevens was distributed to all London and Home Counties police stations that night and early the next morning, as well as to all ports, airports and railway terminals. The message with it ran: Wanted for the murder of a wages guard. Known to be dangerous. Believed to
work with a slim, well-dressed youth, who is also dangerous.
Roger studied the photograph and the caption when he reached the Yard, just before half past eight next morning. He felt on top of the world, as if it could not be long before the arrest was made.
At nine o’clock, the first report came in from the East End Division.
“We know this chap,” Golloway said. “Sure he’s as dangerous as you make out, Handsome?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do a bit of quiet checking,” said Golloway. “I’ll let you know.”
Reports began to come in one after the other, from the Thames Division, from other Divisions in the East End of London, from the City Police, and divisional sub-stations. By half past ten, two shipping agencies, three shipping lines and one shipping employment agency were on the line to report that they knew Stevens. Swiftly, a dossier was built up about the missing man; half-hour by half-hour Roger waited for news that he had been found.
At half past eleven, Golloway was on the line again.
“No luck, yet, Handsome. He’s not at his lodgings.”
“Sure about that?”
“Positive—I’ve been to the place myself. I was careful, but it seemed pretty sure. I’m covering everything. If I get a line, I’ll be in touch.”
“He couldn’t have been tipped off, could he?” asked Cope, gloomily. “I’ve seen him before somewhere myself, too—can’t place him though. Think it’s worth looking through the Rogues’ Gallery for him?”
“No,” said Roger, and abruptly changed his mind. It would give him something to do. He spent an hour scrutinising photographs of men roughly similar to Stevens in appearance, and then there was a call for him.
“It’s Golloway again,” said the East End superintendent. “Still haven’t got him—and there’s a funny bit of news.” “What is it?”
“He’s been going around with a woman named Conway, a barmaid at the Hornpipe, here in my manor. Nice enough woman, widow, good reputation, until she took up with Stevens. He’s been spending a lot of time at her place, but she left with him three days ago. She said she was going to Brighton—told the milkman she was, anyhow.”
