Murder, London--Miami

by John Creasey

  West walked into a big, light, cool room, with wide windows. A chair was standing out from a small desk which was littered with papers, and two armchairs, low and inviting, stood by a round table in the window. The girl dropped into one of these as if her legs could not carry her any longer.

  Roger glanced quickly at the window. It wasn’t open, there was no way in which Marshall could get rid of the briefcase. In fact he put it on the round table, a brown leather, much-worn case with several labels on it: Rome, Paris, Zurich. Then he turned towards West.

  “Superintendent”—his voice was well controlled, West noticed—“this is very like persecution. Why have you followed me from London?”

  “Because I need to ask you some questions, sir, and you left London before I had an opportunity to do so.”

  “You have gone to extreme lengths, surely.”

  “It is a matter of extreme importance, sir.”

  “What is it about?” demanded Marshall.

  Was he deliberately playing for time? wondered West.

  “Why did you leave England when you knew your wife had been brutally murdered, sir?” he asked.

  “The first I heard of my wife’s death was when I was told by a police officer at New York Airport.”

  “I see, sir. In that case, why didn’t you then fly straight back to London? Scotland Yard’s request that you should was passed on to you, presumably.”

  “It was, indeed.” Marshall gave a wry smile. “In fact it was probably this which was the deciding factor in my continuing the journey to Miami.”

  “You mean you were afraid to come back?” rapped Roger.

  Marshall’s expression did not change and his gaze did not waver.

  “Not afraid in the sense you mean it, Mr West. Not afraid of the police, or what they could do. But afraid of the publicity, the headlines, the stories of my wife’s . . . ailment, the constant questioning by newspapermen, by you, the unpleasantness, the pressures, the nervous tension, yes. I was and I still am afraid of those things.”

  The words conjured a vivid picture. But before Roger could comment, Marshall went on, “Why are the police so interested in me, Superintendent?”

  Roger chose his words with care. “We believe you may be able to help us with the enquiries into your wife’s death, sir.”

  “Do you mean you think I killed my wife, and then ran away?” asked Marshall drily.

  ‘He’s not afraid of facing the situation, anyhow,’ thought Roger. How should he answer, he wondered. He could either evade Marshall’s counter-question, or take it at its face value.

  “Yes,” he answered, after a brief pause. “That is what we are considering.”

  “Oh, no!” Henrietta leaned forward in her chair, her eyes enormous in her pale face.

  Marshall stretched out a hand to touch her shoulder.

  “What makes you think that?” he asked, almost casually.

  “Lady Marshall was a rich woman, sir, and you stand to inherit a substantial sum.”

  “But I already have all the money I need, Superintendent. Is that the only evidence against me?”

  Roger frowned. Was Marshall laughing at him? he wondered.

  “No, sir. I understand that you left your home at five minutes to twelve on the night of the murder and returned two hours later. You were seen heading towards Putney – which, as you know, sir, is on the road to Richmond.”

  Henrietta was gazing at Marshall, as if imploring him to deny that he had been out. Would he deny it? wondered Roger.

  Marshall shrugged. “Yes, I was out. And I drove past the nursing home. But I did not go inside, Superintendent.”

  “Were you alone, sir?”

  “I was.”

  “Then no one can support your statement that you did not go inside, can they, sir?”

  “No,” Marshall agreed. “I’m afraid not. But—”

  “David,” Henrietta interrupted in a tense voice, “where did you go that night?”

  “I drove past Yolande’s nursing home to remind myself of what could have been,” said Marshall. His voice was strained. “And I drove past your flat, to remind myself of what could still be.”

  The pressure of his hand on her shoulder tightened; then he withdrew it, and moved to the window. He stood silently for a moment, his back to the room, looking down on the brilliantly blue sea. Then, suddenly, he swung round to face West. “I did not kill my wife, Superintendent, although I had both motive and opportunity.”

  “Do you know who did, sir?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you know of anyone else with a motive, sir?”

  “No.”

  Roger turned to Henrietta, and drew himself up a little more stiffly.

  “Do you know of anyone with a motive, Miss Lyle?”

  Henrietta looked at West blankly, then, slowly, she began to understand the implication of his question, and felt an icy coldness steal over her body.

  West thought that she had a motive!

  He thought she had wanted Yolande dead, so that she could marry David!

  ‘If she does know anything, she’ll crack now,’ thought Roger.

  “Miss Lyle – answer me, please.” His voice was sharp. “Do you know anyone with a motive?”

  Henrietta spoke with unexpected steadiness. “No. No, Superintendent, I don’t.”

  “Do you have a motive?” Roger moved forward and gripped her forearm. “Did you want Lady Marshall dead?”

  “No!” cried Henrietta.

  “Come on, Miss Lyle, let’s have the truth! Did you kill—?”

  “Of course I didn’t!” Henrietta Lyle’s expression changed, anger replaced shock and flashed in her eyes. “You are impertinent, Superintendent. Let me go at once.”

  Haughtiness, imperiousness, now sounded in her voice.

  But Roger thought, ‘Why is Marshall so silent?’

  Henrietta thought, ‘Why is David letting him do this to me?’

  “Superintendent,” said Marshall, very quietly, “I understand that American police methods can be rougher than ours. Is this a case of when in Rome doing what the Romans do?”

  Roger swung round on him. “It’s a case of finding out who killed your wife, sir.”

  “You won’t find out here,” Marshall retorted. “Neither I nor Miss Lyle know anything about it. I concede your right to suspect and to interrogate, but not your right to manhandle Miss Lyle. Please don’t do that again.”

  Roger drew away from the girl and, for the first time, looked at the briefcase.

  “Miss Lyle had a telephone call from you in New York, sir. I don’t know the precise terms of the conversation, but I do know that Miss Lyle immediately flew to join you here. I also know that she had a package addressed to a firm of booksellers when she left me at your house, but that she did not post the package. I have reason to suspect that it is in that briefcase and that it contains certain papers.” Roger looked closely from Marshall to Henrietta. “May I see those papers, sir?”

  For a moment there was silence. Then Marshall stepped forward. “They are private and personal.”

  “I will treat them with absolute confidence, sir.”

  “I repeat – they are private and personal—”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Roger spoke heavily. “I think those documents may contain certain information of great importance to Great Britain and probably to other governments. And they may also give a clue to the reason for the murder of your wife. I’m afraid I must ask you to let me have that case at once.”

  18

  THE DOCUMENTS

  Henrietta thought, ‘This gets more and more absurd; it’s utterly ridiculous. David, a spy. David, a murderer?’ Had the police gone mad?

  She looked up at him, and saw the last thing she ex
pected – a little twitch at his mouth, a characteristic when he was amused but didn’t want to show it. He picked up the case.

  “If you say so, Superintendent.” He held out his hand. “Let me have the key, Henrietta.”

  Henrietta fumbled in her bag, found the key, and held it out. David took it.

  “Superintendent,” he said, “I am not a murderer, nor am I a spy. In fact I am not a criminal of any kind.”

  He handed West the key.

  “Thank you, sir.” Roger placed the briefcase on the table in the window, and something caught Henrietta’s eye. She glanced up, to see an aeroplane pulling a sign across the sky; she caught the word ‘steak.’ Beyond, on that brilliant sea, were some small sailing ships and several white launches and, almost on the horizon, two large ships; she saw, yet was hardly aware of these. West was holding the case in one hand and inserting the key with the other. His movements were firm and deliberate; there was no fumbling, no missing the keyhole. He put back the flap which kept the case closed, and it sprang open.

  She noticed that he kept his head on one side, almost as if he expected something to explode.

  David was watching him as closely, still with that glint of amusement.

  Inside, Henrietta knew, were the papers he had been working on, her excuse for coming to Miami, and the three sealed packets. West took the open file out first, thumbed through it, then put it back. Any moment, thought Henrietta, he would find the packages still addressed to the booksellers still tied round with string. She remembered bitterly how jubilant she had been when she had smuggled it out of the house.

  As she watched him, there was a sound at the door. Henrietta heard it a split second before the men, and glanced round. By then the sound had become identifiable – very quietly, very cautiously, a key was being turned in the lock.

  “Who’s there?” called West sharply.

  “The porter, sir,” a man called.

  “I don’t want a porter. Go away.”

  There was a moment’s pause, followed by another sharp click of sound, and the door was thrust back. A young man with a very pale face stepped swiftly inside, a gun in his right hand. He was thrusting it forward, towards West.

  “Don’t move!” he rapped.

  He was followed by a dark-haired youth. ‘Pedro,’ thought Henrietta, recognising the boy who had brought her up in the elevator. The man with the gun muttered something in a language which Henrietta did not understand, and Pedro came forward, moving slowly, stealthily, his brown eyes enormous, as if he were touched by fear. His hands were outstretched as he looked from one person to the other, then at the briefcase.

  “Apurate!” rasped the man at the door.

  The youth started, then snatched at the case.

  “Apurate!”

  ‘What can be in it?’ thought Henrietta wildly. ‘What can be in it?’

  ‘Aha,’ thought Roger, ‘so it does contain something that matters!’ He had seen neither of the intruders before, but could tell that the youth was nervous from the way his lips quivered.

  “Don’t touch this case,” he ordered.

  “Take it!” hissed the man in the door. He looked venomously at Roger.

  The case was still in Roger’s hands. He could hold on to it or let it go, and if he held on he had no doubt that the man at the door would shoot. Help should be at hand but it didn’t appear to be; the men could get away with the case and everything in it.

  The youth was gripping it now.

  “Let him have it!” the man with the gun spat, in English. “If you don’t!”

  Roger pulled it free and kneed the youth in the stomach, then raised the case in a single swift movement in front of his face. He heard the snarl of a shot, a gasp from the girl, the thudding as the youth backed away – and he felt a jolt against the case. There was a thump against his forehead, and for a few seconds everything went black. As if from a great distance, he could hear other, heavier sounds; another shot, then a roar which seemed to deafen him.

  After that, a strange silence fell, lasting for a moment which seemed an age before a man said, “Are you okay, Roger?”

  Slowly, Roger put his hand to his forehead. To his surprise, he felt something wet.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said; then stared down at the blood on his fingers.

  Henrietta stared at the blood, coming from a wound in West’s forehead, just above his left eye. The whole scene was vivid on her mind, like a tableau. West, wounded; the case, slipping from his grasp; the youth Pedro cringing back against the wall; the man who had shot West lying on the floor, where he had fallen; a man in a pale-grey suit holding a smoking gun.

  The man on the floor had a big red stain on his white shirt, and Henrietta saw it was on the left side.

  She sensed that he was dead.

  Then, suddenly, everyone seemed to move at once. Other men came in from the passage, one of them in uniform. David turned to her and took her hands.

  In the distance someone said, “He’s dead,” and closer at hand another man said, “You’re hurt, Roger. Let me look at that wound.”

  Then, all at once, she was in David’s arms, being crushed to him. She had never known such strength, never known what it was to be held so tightly.

  For a while, it was as if there was no one else in the world but David; no sound but the whisper of his voice, “Oh my love, my love, my love ...”

  Then she heard West saying, “Sir David . . . Sir David . . . Sir David ...”

  The voice grew louder, and suddenly exploded in her ear, and she was blasted from the stillness and the oasis world into reality.

  “Sir David!”

  David drew back from her.

  West stood nearby, touching David’s shoulder. They must have been standing like that for a long time, for now there was a plaster on West’s forehead, covering the wound. Behind him was the man who had fired the revolver. Over by the door, the man who had been shot lay with a sheet over him. A uniformed policeman stood by the open door, a man with a camera was aiming over his shoulder.

  The youth Pedro had gone.

  The briefcase was still on the table. The metal fastener had a hole in it, quite small, round, dark. The bullet must have pierced the metal before striking West; if it hadn’t, he would have been killed. He was as self-possessed as ever, none the less.

  Now David let her go and was looking at West.

  “Did you know you were in danger?” West demanded.

  “No,” answered David. “Not here, certainly, but—”

  “Give me a straight answer, sir, please.”

  “I suspected there was danger, both to me and my wife, but I didn’t expect it here,” David said very carefully.

  ‘Danger?’ thought Henrietta, ‘what danger had he known about?’ Danger. One man was dead and another had narrowly missed death, because of what was in the briefcase. What was the danger? Why hadn’t David told her?

  “What kind of danger?” demanded West.

  “Of being murdered,” David answered calmly.

  It was crazy, thought Henrietta; she couldn’t be hearing properly, and yet she was. She moved to a chair and dropped into it.

  “You expected it!” muttered the man with the gun. He moved towards West and David.

  West seemed suddenly to become aware of his existence.

  “Sir David, this is Lieutenant Thompson, who has been attached to the enquiry by the Miami Beach police.”

  “Lieutenant,” David said, nodding.

  “I wish I could say I was glad to meet you,” said Thompson. “Who can be glad about this?”

  “When were you first aware of the danger?” asked West.

  A shadow passed across David’s face.

  “Shortly after our marriage my wife became a very sick woman, Supe
rintendent, and as is often the case with mental disorders, her love for me turned, almost overnight, to a fanatical hatred. The writer of those anonymous letters took advantage of her sickness by fanning this hatred, until at last she made an attempt to murder me. I hushed this up – persuaded the family doctor to say nothing. After the police had been called in over the attempted suicide, I felt, perhaps misguidedly, that any more attention might make her insanity permanent. A useless precaution as it turned out. And shortly afterwards she went away to the nursing home.”

  “So you were safe from any further attack, Sir David.” West sounded sceptical.

  “Safe from any further attack my wife might have made, Superintendent, but what about the person who so exploited her sickness? And what about Yolande’s safety? I had very good reason to believe that the person who wrote those letters wanted us both dead!”

  “So you went to Miami to forget about it.” West sounded even more sceptical.

  “No, Superintendent. I came to Miami to see the only person whom I believed might be able to help me find the person responsible.”

  “And who did you think could help you?”

  “My cousin, Chloe Renati,” David answered. “She works here as a social hostess. In fact you can probably see her in the pool patio if you look out of the window.”

  The grey-suited man moved to the window. Henrietta looked out, too.

  There in the sunlit patio, with the huge pool dotted with people swimming or floating, with hundreds of people lying on the beaches and dozens of colourful umbrellas dotted about, was Chloe. It was impossible to mistake her in her pink candy-striped dress and big floppy hat. She was standing with her back to the pool, a group of people in swimsuits about her. Even from here, it was possible to see that she was talking gaily, waving her arms, and something she said caused a burst of laughter; people surged away from her, while she threw back her head and roared with laughter.

  “Why should your cousin be able to help you?” asked West.