The Executioners

by John Creasey

  “These bloody civil service politics!” Roger exploded. “Why can’t they do their own dirty work?”

  “Meaning?”

  “They don’t want Chayter hounded, be damned. If we’re going to watch him closely, of course we’re going to hound him.” Roger was already conjuring up visions of what would happen once the news of official interest in Chayter spread. “The newspapers will work it to death once they realise what we’re doing. They’re bound to be after him already – on a case like this they can be merciless. You know that as well as I do.”

  “The Home Office probably thinks that all newspaper editors are saints who behave exactly as the Press Council thinks they should,” Coppell said. “Well, whether you like it or not, West, you’ve got this job. You’re to watch Chayter until you’re as sure as you possibly can be that he won’t kill again.”

  Roger said glumly: “You wouldn’t like to give the whole job to Frisby, and let me have someone in his place, would you?”

  “No. I would not.”

  “Any special instructions?”

  Coppell actually grinned.

  “Yes. Don’t hound Chayter.”

  “How much time shall I give the case?”

  “As much as it needs.”

  “How many men can I use?”

  “As many as you need.”

  Roger fell silent, for already he could see serious snags. How did he make sure Chayter could do no harm unless he had him followed, night and day. To be effective, such surveillance would need three men at least; four would be better. Other men would have to be on different aspects of the inquiry – virtually going over the old crime again, and reliving it. There seemed no doubt about the task he had to do: it was to try to make sure that, at this delicate stage in the Parliamentary and the party political state of the law abolishing punishment, Chayter did nothing to rouse the anti-abolitionists to white heat.

  On the one hand it seemed both over-officious and deleterious to suspect that Chayter might kill again, and on the other, it would be impossible to do the job thoroughly without treating the ex-convict as a suspect for a crime which he had not committed; but which by their persecution they might even themselves cause to be committed.

  Abruptly, Roger said: “The more I think about this, the less I like it.”

  “Don’t forget prevention’s better than cure,” Coppell said soothingly. “Keep me posted whenever anything happens worth reporting – never less than once a week, anyhow.”

  This was dismissal.

  “Right, sir,” Roger said. He stood up, matched Coppell’s half-smile with a rueful one, and went straight into the passage, so avoiding the Commander’s blond assistant. He did not want to discuss this affair with anyone except Frisby until he had worked out a plan of campaign, and that wouldn’t be easy. The worst part was the inevitability of Chayter finding out that he was under surveillance. True, really skilled tailers might get away with it for a few days, even a few weeks. But selecting the right men was going to be extremely difficult, and they would undoubtedly react in much the same way as he had reacted, feeling that with such a job they would simply be at a dead end all the time.

  There was nothing to get his teeth into—

  And yet, in a way, it was a challenge; different but no less difficult than his most severe challenges in the past. Slightly less depressed, he turned into his office, sat at his desk, and read the little typewritten note on top of the pile.

  Chayter staying with brother at 21, Link Street, London, N.W,

  After a pause, Roger said wryly: “Well, at least I know where to start,” He pressed the bell to summon Frisby.

  Chapter Five

  Start

  Frisby listened with close attention until Roger finished telling him what the new job was. A faint gleam in the pale eyes suggested eagerness, perhaps the nearest Frisby ever got to excitement. He did not make notes; his memory was so phenomenal that he never had to. No one interrupted, and the only sound apart from Roger’s voice was the hum of traffic on the Embankment.

  “So now we’ve every chance to go over the case and check to your heart’s content,” Roger said. When Frisby didn’t answer immediately, he went on: “What do you make of it?”

  “Will we do it ourselves, or use the Division?” asked Frisby.

  “It’s on our plate, but we’ll use the Division as much as we can.”

  “Meaning they can keep an eye on the house but we’ve got to follow Chayter wherever he goes,” Frisby said. “Unless we use three or four different people most days, he’ll soon know what we’re up to, and once he realises that he’s being watched it would defeat our purpose, wouldn’t it?”

  Roger frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “If the Home Office want him to have another go, they won’t want him warned that he’s being followed,” Frisby said.

  Roger’s frown deepened.

  “The Home Office wishes to make sure he doesn’t kill again,” he said punctiliously.

  “Sure about that?”

  It was one thing to be wary of what he said to the Commander, another to be left floundering by Frisby. “Of course I’m sure,” Roger said. “It would be an indefensible thing to do otherwise. There might be one or two crackpots at the Home Office, but they’re not so Machiavellian as that. And on the political side, I think we ought to assume the Home Office is for the Abolition, not against it. I don’t think this is a matter of moral issue, not at high level, anyhow. If the Home Office was anti-Abolition, or even neutral, they’d simply await events, they wouldn’t get agitated. If Chayter killed again it would be an argument for the pro-hanging faction; if he didn’t, it would have no effect at all.”

  “I expect you’re right, sir,” said Frisby, “So all we’ve got to worry about is not hounding Chayter. Doesn’t make it any easier, though. How would you ensure it?”

  Just as Roger had deferred to Coppell, so Frisby was deferring to him.

  “You’ve already told me how you’d do it,” Roger said. “Use three or four or a dozen people.” Quite suddenly, he saw a way of keeping a close watch on Chayter without arousing the man’s suspicions too early – and at the same time, making sure that no officers spent too much time on a job which would seem pointless to them. “We need a rota of men from here and from the Division. We want male and female officers, each doing a stint for an hour or two, and we want to make sure no one is on this job too often. Shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.” He was warming to these tactics. “The Division could take mornings, we could take afternoons, and do evenings and nights alternatively. Fix it, will you?”

  “Right away, sir,” Frisby said. “No limit to how many different people on the job, then?”

  “No limit.”

  “How much should they all know?”

  Roger deliberated.

  “Not about the Home Office interest,” he decided. “No reason why they shouldn’t know we think he’s worth watching because he might try again … The Press mustn’t know … Why don’t you draft a simple memo which we can give to everyone as they go on the job? Emphasise the secrecy and the fact we’re doing it this way so as not to give Chayter a raw deal.” He paused again, fleetingly, “Put two or three good tailers on to Chayter at once, and brief them yourself. Any questions?”

  “None yet, sir.”

  “As they crop up, let me know,” Roger ordered. “It may be necessary to modify the approach,”

  “Right!” Frisby went out, obviously happier than when he had come in, and eager to get his teeth into the job. The assignment was beginning to interest him, as it was beginning to interest Roger, for its own sake, and there was a side-issue which in its way was the main one: had capital punishment gone for good in England, or would some sensational crime or series of crimes do anything to bring it back?

  Roger had told Coppell the simple truth: the humanitarian in him hated it, but the policeman in him was convinced that, in spite of all arguments, the death penalty did have a deterrent effect
on some people.

  When he turned to the other jobs waiting for attention, he was cheerful enough to start whistling.

  Paul Charter also whistled to himself that day, and in the week that followed, and every now and again his spirits rose so high that he was tempted to burst into song. He had no doubt or misgivings about the idea which had flashed into his mind on the night of his brother’s arrival; it had released a subconscious urge or longing in him, the sublimation of all that had happened to him since his brother’s conviction. Then – and now – he hated Cecil. He had believed the only way to expunge the awful shame to himself, was for his brother to die, by hanging, for his deed.

  Now …

  In the warped mind of Paul Chayter there was this almost ghoulish delight, a consummation of twenty years of dreaming. As his dislike of, his aversion to, his wife had strengthened he had even thought of killing her soon after Cecil came home, killing her so that Cecil would be hanged for the deed. Then the fools had abolished hanging.

  But there were other ways he could punish and hurt them both. It was now quite easy to be light-hearted and almost gay with Julie, and even to appear affectionate towards Cecil.

  To add to the savour, Julie and Cecil were obviously becoming affectionate towards each other. Moreover, Paul knew exactly how Cecil had killed that poor bitch of a girl, for he had been fascinated by the details, at the time of the investigation and the trial, until they had sickened him. No one could be surprised if Cecil killed again, and provided the murder was done in the same way, perhaps with the same motive, there would be little difficulty in making sure he was found guilty, He might even be hanged, if the trial abolition law were repealed.

  He deserved to be hanged.

  All murderers should be hanged.

  He almost choked with laughter.

  “I don’t understand Paul,” Julie said to Cecil.

  “He never was an easy man to understand,” Cecil Chayter replied.

  “I’ve never known him so gay.”

  “I don’t believe it’s because I’m home.” Cecil shrugged his shoulders and attempted to laugh; any kind of laughter came with difficulty, unfamiliar and even unwanted. “I must admit he’s been much more brotherly than I expected. I put it down to your good influence.” As he spoke, he studied Julie’s face.

  “In all the fifteen years that we’ve been together he’s never been like he has in the past two weeks,” Julie asserted. “Except perhaps in the first few weeks after we were married. I mean that. Until you came he and I were—well, it was just a patchwork marriage. He hardly knew how to be polite to me, I hardly knew how to be pleasant to him. I put on an act, of course, and in a way he did.”

  “This isn’t an act,” declared Cecil.

  “Oh, it’s genuine enough. If only I knew what has made him so happy.” After a pause, she repeated: “Happy—Paul. It doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I suppose—” began Cecil, and broke off.

  “I had a silly thought.”

  “Try it on me,” urged Julie.

  “I suppose we couldn’t be wrong and uncharitable,” Cecil said awkwardly. “It’s just possible that my release has pleased Paul.” When Julie didn’t answer, only looked at him levelly, he lifted and dropped his hands. He was beginning to make natural little gestures now; two weeks had begun to erode the iron stiffness and unapproachability which he had built within himself. “Oh, well. It was a charitable thought.”

  “Cecil,” Julie said, “I don’t think your brother has any charitable thoughts.”

  Gravely, Cecil replied: “That’s an awful thing to have to say.”

  “I think it’s true, all the same.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Within a month of our getting married, I suspected that he had married me for my money,” Julie declared. “It was a hideous thought. He was so good-looking, in those days, and rather aloof. Austere, perhaps. There was something remote and romantic about him. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Remote, yes.”

  “Hardly romantic, perhaps, to a brother,” mused Julie, “but women would have found him so. I wonder if—” it was her turn to break off.

  “Wonder if what?”

  “Oh, I’m being absurd!”

  “You mean it’s absurd to wonder if there could be another woman,” said Cecil, flatly. “It might explain why he is so gay. He may have a reason to be glad I’m here,” he went on, almost eagerly. “He may feel he can be away more in the evenings. He’s been out more often than he’s been in – is he always out so much?”

  Slowly, Julie said: “Two evenings a week usually. He says he goes to a private film show one night, and a trade meeting another. I have never tried, or wished, to check up on it.”

  Cecil didn’t speak, but laid a hand on Julie’s arm, and this little gesture seemed to break down her last reserve.

  “I’ve learned to hate him!” she cried vehemently. The words came out quickly, signalling the sudden release of pent-up emotions. No one could possibly doubt that she meant exactly what she said. “Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t really put a finger on any one thing and say it’s because of this or that, but—” she gave a little shudder, quite uncontrollable. “Sometimes I can’t bear him to touch me.”

  Cecil still didn’t speak.

  She looked into his face, and wondered almost fearfully what he was thinking. She shouldn’t talk to him like this, of course, it wasn’t fair. He was trying to readjust to the world and to freedom, he had enough problems of his own to worry about, she certainly shouldn’t worry him with hers. Yet they were so often together, and after her ineptness at their first meeting, Julie had made herself talk freely, partly to atone for any hurt she might have caused him, partly to break down that front of his isolation. Soon she had found that talking to him came easily, and it had not been long before she had said enough to make him suspect what she felt about Paul.

  They seemed even closer today than they had in the past two weeks. Asked to say why, she could not have explained, but just now she felt it was much more natural and right for her to be with Cecil than with Paul. But she must not add to his already over-heavy burden.

  “Cecil,” she said quickly, “I’m talking too much – I’m sorry. I’ve lived with Paul for so long that I’m used to feeling like I do. It—it’s the change in him that puzzles me so much.” Suddenly, she felt fight-hearted, and she touched Cecil’s hand. “I wonder if he has got a girl-friend. That would explain things, wouldn’t it?”

  Cecil said, stonily: “Have you got a boy-friend? That would explain things equally.”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  Cecil moved away from her, the cloak of reserve falling on him once again. “I think I’ll go out for an hour. Sooner or later I have to learn to cope with the traffic.”

  Chilled, almost in the little girl manner which she had cultivated for Paul, she asked: “Would you like me to come with you?” She bent her head and peered up at him.

  “No. I’ll be all right,” he said stiffly,

  “I’d like to, really,” Julie said, childishly. Her eyes were beautiful, but it was a mistake to flutter her lashes; she knew this even as she did it.

  “I’d rather be alone,” Cecil said.

  He turned into the passage, and walked towards the front door, leaving Julie standing quite still, angry with herself and a little angry with, him. She heard the front door open and close; then she heard a noise as of tearing paper. Hadn’t he gone? She swung round.

  He was still in the hall.

  He was taking something – a card – out of an envelope; the sound she had heard had been the opening of the letter. She saw him standing stiffly motionless, staring down. He stood like that for a long time, and she knew he was quite oblivious of her.

  He looked as if he were in torment.

  Chapter Six

  The Drawing

  Julie could not stand there any longer without knowing what caused that look of anguish, and she
moved sharply into the passage. Cecil must have heard her, been aware of her approach, but he did not look round, simply continued to stare at the card in his hand. Now that she was nearer she could see the way the muscles of his jaw were working, the near-panic in his expression.

  She reached him, but did not speak, divining that this was a moment for silence. She moved to a position from which she could see the card, and, on the instant, gasped: “Oh, no!”

  He did not speak or move.

  “Oh, how dreadful!” she exclaimed.

  It was the only word which occurred to her, the horror of what she saw filling her mind as if with black mist. The card, of large postcard size, was covered with a crude pen and ink drawing of a man standing in front of a girl, his hands round her throat. Her eyes were staring, her tongue protruding. The man’s hands were huge, and the thumbs were buried in the neck.

  “The devils!” Julie exploded. “The cold-blooded devils!”

  Cecil muttered two or three words which she did not hear.

  She felt that she wanted to rush out and find whoever had done this cruel thing, and choke the very life out of him.

  “Oh, no, my dear,” said Cecil bitterly. “I’m the devil.”

  “Cecil, they must be mad!”

  “People thought I was mad,” said Cecil.

  “They ought to be—”

  “Don’t say it!” Cecil exclaimed with startling vehemence. “I’m the devil, I’m the one who ought to be hanged. That’s what they think, and perhaps they’re right.”

  “Cecil, please!”

  “One thing’s certain, I can’t stay here any longer.”

  “Cecil!”

  “Obviously I can’t.”

  “Why on earth not?”