The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  He shivered, violently.

  He straightened up, pushed his gloved hands through his hair, and then thought in panic: I mustn’t leave any hairs in here! He snatched his hands down, and stood staring at Alice. She did not look very different, really, there was only puffiness at her neck, a kind of relaxed look on her face. He moved convulsively, snatched at the sheet and pulled it up over her head.

  He shivered again.

  The light was so strange, the shadows so peculiar. Of course; that lamp was on the floor. He hesitated, then stepped to the door, switched on the main light, and looked round the room. He was glad that he had covered Alice’s face. As far as he could see, little had been disturbed, after all. He righted the lamp, then stepped towards the armchair and the table by it. The smell of gas was heady now, and he bent down and turned off the tap.

  He opened the cupboard just behind the chair, and saw two boxes of chocolates on a handy shelf. He picked them up, ripped off the top of the boxes, and saw the telltale blemishes on the smooth, dark surface of the bottom one. She did not eat a box full in one evening, that was just her joke.

  Joke!

  He put the drugged chocolates into his pocket, reminded himself that the others might have his prints on, and wiped them clean, then looked about very carefully, trying to make sure that he had left no clue. He searched the plain carpet and the bedspread and eiderdown for his own hairs, found two, took off his gloves to pick them up, and put them carefully on to his coat collar. He did not look much at the figure on the bed, but noticed that the sheet had fallen more closely to the shape of her head. He clenched his teeth and went close, pulling the sheet back, to find out whether she had loosened any of his hairs when beating at him; there were several, grey and wavy, actually on her hair.

  He picked them off.

  Steeling himself, he looked at her hands, and between the fingers of the right hand were more hairs.

  He pulled these free.

  He felt and heard his teeth grating as he turned away. He had to stand still for a minute before being steady enough to move. Then he drew on his gloves again, stepped to the door and listened carefully, heard nothing, and put out the main light. The bedside light hardly showed, and he hadn’t the nerve to go back to switch it off. He pulled the door open stealthily, and the only sound was the rubbing against the carpet. A dim yellow glow shone at the head of the stairs, just outside the door. He closed the door again, holding his breath until it was closed tightly, and he waited for the click which would tell him that the latch was home; it seemed an age in coming, he ought to use his key. Then the click came very softly.

  His heart was pounding.

  He went down the stairs in the quiet, eerie house; there was no sound at all, not even of music, until he reached the ground floor. He heard a noise which alarmed him, and which he could not place at first; then he realised that it was a man snoring. He glared at the door. No light shone except that at the landing, to show latecomers the way.

  He touched the handle of the front door, then heard a car engine. He drew back, snatching his hand away. It sounded like an old car, missing on one cylinder, and it was slowing down. He pressed tight against the wall behind the door. There was no doubt that it would stop near here, and might stop right outside. He moved away from the door and looked around desperately for a place to hide, but there was none; all the doors were locked, and each led to a small flat. There was Alice’s room, but— He stood irresolute in the middle of the passage, and the car stopped, the engine stopped; then there was silence. He went closer to the door, ears straining for the slightest noise, but there was none. He bent down on one knee and tried to pull the letterbox open, but the spring was strong and he could not shift it. Without opening the door, there was no way of telling whether the car was just outside.

  What the hell were they doing?

  He drew back, staring longingly at the door handle, aching to open the door even an inch, but not daring to for at least five minutes. Five minutes, what the hell were they doing? He simply couldn’t go back to Alice’s room; he could not. His forehead and neck were clammy with sweat, the palms of his hands were moist and hot in those thin gloves.

  The couple were necking, what else would they be doing? A couple in a car outside oblivious of—

  There was a sound – a creaking – and the slamming of a door, followed by footsteps. A man said in a low-pitched voice: “Won’t be a jiffy, pet.”

  Pet, pet, pet – pet!

  Another door opened. A girl spoke, but Payne could not hear the words. There was a sound of footsteps, very soft and confused, and then footsteps came slowly towards this door. Payne pressed himself against the wall behind it again. If it were thrust right back, it would squash him, and whoever opened it would know that someone was there. Would the man or the woman come in? The woman, of course, he was a fool to wonder. The woman—

  A woman would be easier to handle, he thought; and he did not realise exactly what passed through his mind.

  Why didn’t they come?

  The next sound was very close to the door, so close that it startled him.

  The girl said: “No, sweetheart.”

  The man said: “I needn’t stay long.”

  “I know, darling, but—”

  “Ten minutes!”

  “If you stay for ten minutes you’ll stay all night, you know you will.”

  “It’s what I want most in the world.”

  The girl said, with a soft-voiced insistence: “No, darling, we—we’ve got to wait.”

  “But why should we? We’re going to get married soon, why should we—”

  “Ted, darling, please.”

  In a flurry of panic, Payne thought that she was weakening; of course she would weaken, the man would get his own way. That meant the pair of them would come in, and would be bound to see him. He would have to fight. There would be two of the others, and he had no idea how powerful the man was. He stood absolutely rigid, hands clenched, feeling icily cold. Whispering was going on outside, and the little soft sounds of lovers; then the girl said: “Ted, you must go.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t want you to, but you must.”

  “You’re hard, honey!”

  “We’ll both be glad, in the morning.”

  “Don’t you believe it!” the man exclaimed, in a louder voice than he had yet used. Payne detected a note of laughter in it, a rueful acknowledgment of defeat. Thank God for that! “Sweetheart.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  “Positive, darling.”

  “Hard, that’s the word for you,” the man insisted, but the laughter was louder in his voice. “Bless you! You couldn’t be more right. But I must see you as far as your door.”

  No!

  The girl laughed.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she said dryly. “There’ll be a light on, and I’m perfectly capable of unlocking my own door, thank you. You can unlock this one for me, Sir Galahad.”

  Their mood had changed completely to one of lighthearted banter. The clever little bitch, Payne thought; she knew exactly how to handle the man – but there was still a possibility that he would insist, after all, that he was really playing the game his own way, that once the door was open, he would come in with her.

  A key scraped on the latch; the girl laughed in a way that was almost a giggle. The key was inserted, and there was a sharp click. Payne pressed so tightly against the wall that the back of his head hurt, and he felt as if the pressure would soon pitch him forward. The door opened several inches, and the street light came through. The girl’s voice sounded very much clearer.

  “Good night, my darling.”

  “Good night, beloved.”

  He wasn’t coming in – he girl had
him where she wanted him. The door opened wider, but it didn’t yet touch Payne. Wider still, until he could see shadows, and he felt the awful fear, that the man would make a last minute effort to have his way.

  There was a rustle of sound, and a kiss, then a flurry of movement. The girl stepped straight into the passage, with the door pressing hard against Payne’s toes. She did not seem to notice.

  The man’s voice had a husky note.

  “Good night.”

  Get it over, you lunatics, Payne breathed.

  He was almost at screaming pitch. If the girl turned round this way to close the door, she could not fail to see him, and it was the natural way to turn. One scream before the door closed, and the man would rush in; one scream after it was closed, and the alarm would be raised. Payne could almost hear the man battering on the door, to come to the girl’s rescue.

  The girl turned the other way, so that she could look out for the last time, and whisper: “Good night, darling.”

  “Good night!”

  She closed the door. She stood by it for a moment, her back towards Payne. She could still turn this way, but every second was a help to Payne, for the man’s footsteps sounded clearly. The other was losing no time, he would soon be at the car. What was this little fool doing? Was she going to open the door to have a last glimpse of him? Could anyone be so cloying, so—

  She turned round, without facing him, and moved towards the stairs. He pressed against the corner, holding his breath. Her footsteps were soft, because she wore rubber soles. In this pale light, she looked young; she had rather long fair hair and wore a pale-coloured coat which was draped from her shoulders like a tent. She went straight to the stairs and started up them. Now the only danger was when she turned the bend in the stairs; if she looked round, she would be bound to see him, bound to scream.

  He ought to go after her.

  He could catch her up, and make sure that she couldn’t raise the alarm.

  The engine of the car started up, noisily. The girl hesitated for a moment, and Payne thought she was going to turn. Payne actually began to move forward, but instead of turning, she quickened her pace, rounded the bend in the stairs and went up. Her head vanished, her shoulders, her body, her shapely legs and feet.

  The car moved off.

  Cycling away from the adjoining street, Payne felt a nausea which caused agony, and he began to say to himself: “I would have killed her if she’d seen me. I would have killed her.”

  Chapter Four

  Suspect

  Superintendent Roger West of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard woke a little before seven o’clock on the morning after the murder of Alice Murray. Janet, his wife, was snuggled close against him, with the eiderdown piled up on her; there was very little left for him, so there was a cold streak down his back. He edged a little closer to her, and promptly she edged away; he grinned. The cold streak was the argument for twin beds, the snugness the winning argument against them; they weren’t likely to change until they were decrepit! He lay still for five minutes, then heard the clock strike in the front room downstairs. If he were sensible, he would get up now, shave and bathe, and bring Janet’s tea in about half past seven; then there would be no need to hurry. He could call the boys at half past seven, too, and so create the outside possibility that Richard, the younger, would be ready for school without having to rush.

  But this was comfortable; cosy; seductive.

  He slid his arm round Janet, suspecting that she was between waking and sleeping; it was a pity to make her wake up earlier than she must. He made the effort, and got out of bed; brrrh! This house was like an icebox in the cold spells. He thought again, as he often did these days, that it was time they moved, when they did the new house must have central heating. Why did the English pretend that it was an invention of the frail and sickly?

  He slid his arms into the sleeves of a woollen dressing gown, and went out. The boys’ door was closed. That was another reason for wanting to move; they really needed a room each at fifteen and sixteen, yet if they had it, the spare room would go, and there would be no room for friends and relations. Fifteen and sixteen – good lord! And he and Janet had been here for five years before Martin had come along. Twenty one years in the same place, and with much of the same furniture; no wonder he felt that they wanted a change, and no wonder Janet was beginning to revolt against paint and patching.

  The house had been suitable for a detective sergeant, even a detective inspector, and just passable for a chief inspector – but it wasn’t good enough for a chief superintendent.

  Roger shaved and had his bath, went downstairs, and was putting the kettle on when the telephone bell rang. He hurried into the front room to answer it, as always wishing that he had a telephone extension in the kitchen. Why was it that he could keep putting off an essential thing like that? He went into the front room, the sitting-room-cum-parlour, and the curtains were drawn, there was a slightly stale smell of tobacco smoke, making him wrinkle his nose. He put on the light and grabbed the receiver.

  “West speaking.”

  “Sorry to worry you, Mr. West.” This was the traditional piece of nonsense if he was being called out when not on duty. “But Mr. Sloan would like a word with you.”

  Bill Sloan, recently promoted to superintendency, was on night duty; and he would not call Roger unless there was really a good reason.

  “Put him through,” Roger said, and there was only a moment’s pause before Sloan came on with his deep voice holding an occasional undertone of Cockney. Roger could picture this big, red-faced man who was beginning to put on weight.

  “Morning, Roger,” Sloan greeted. “How would you like a nice little job right on your doorstep?”

  “What job?” Roger asked cautiously.

  “Murder,” answered Sloan briefly. “A girl strangled round in Manville Street. See what I mean by saying it’s on your doorstep?”

  Roger said: “Yes, Bill, thanks.” Sloan knew that if he took over an inquiry so close home as this, he would be able to slip indoors for meals and look in during the day; it was a piece of cake which seldom came a Yard man’s way, and characteristic of Sloan to make sure that he had a chance at it.

  “If you get along right away, you’re bound to be handed the job,” Sloan said.

  “I will. Who’s there now?”

  “Freddy Thompson, of the Division, and he’s been blearing for help. We only had the flash ten minutes ago. I don’t even know how the body was discovered yet. Freddy’s due off at eight, and he’ll be glad to unload everything on to you.”

  “Okay,” Roger said. “Tell him I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour or so, will you?”

  “Needn’t break your neck,” Sloan told him. “Or were you up and about?”

  “Just up,” Roger said. “What’s this girl’s name?”

  “Dunno. The address is 24, Manville Street, and it’s an apartment house.”

  “A flatlet house,” Roger corrected, thoughtfully. “I know the place. Thanks again, Bill.”

  “Forget it,” Sloan said, and chuckled. “Don’t make it last too long!”

  He rang off.

  Roger made the tea, and was carrying it upstairs when Richard, tall, thin, with an unruly mop of dark hair, a very clear, fresh complexion and blue eyes which looked huge and sleepy, was coming out of the bathroom.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “Morning, little ’un. How’s tricks?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “The catarrh?”

  “Haven’t been awake long enough to know,” answered Richard, “but I think it’s getting better.”

  “Keep at the exercises and the tablets,” Roger urged. “You’ll beat it if you work hard. How’s the big ’un?”

  “Still in bed,” Richard answered.

&
nbsp; “Oh, no, he isn’t,” observed Martin – called Scoopy – in a sepulchral voice. He put his head round his bedroom door, which was close to the bathroom. “I’ve been up for at least twenty seven seconds. Morning, Dad. Was that a case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate murders,” Richard declared with sudden shrillness. “Why do people have to kill people?” He stood rubbing his eyes, pyjama trousers gaping unashamedly, jacket fastened at the wrong buttons, looking worried and indignant. Martin came into full view, naked except for a pair of short pants, a little taller, much broader and much more powerful than his brother, hair between colours and much more untidy. His chest was massive – already forty one to Roger’s forty four. He threw out his chest and pummelled it, saying: “You want me to deal with them, that’s what you want! I’d give ’em murder!”

  “You put something on or you’ll die of cold,” Roger said. He hesitated, aware of Richard staring at him intently; Richard never gave up without getting some kind of answer to any question he posed, and here was a question which should be answered. “Fish,” Roger said, “you remember when you were younger, you used to get into flaming tempers?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “He used to think he could fight me,” Scoopy remarked, grinning.

  “Some people lose their temper far worse than you did, they commit murder as a result, and spend the rest of their lives wishing they hadn’t,” Roger said. “Others get frightened of being found out in some crime, and kill to save themselves. Others get greedy.”

  This wasn’t very good, but it seemed to satisfy Richard for the moment, for he said: “Oh, I see.”

  Scoopy grinned.

  “Well, that’s more than I do.”

  “You get washed,” Roger ordered, and smothered a grin as he turned round with the tea tray. It didn’t surprise him to see Janet sitting up in bed, dressing jacket wrapped tightly round her shoulders, hair net already off; her dark hair was beginning to turn grey. She had a very clear complexion and always looked fresh in the mornings. “Hallo,” Roger greeted. “So you can wake up.”