by John Creasey
“Sorry if I kept you, Doc,” said Roger, cheerfully. “Just wanted to know if you could solve it for me.”
“No need for your sarcasm, either.” Old Dammit said, but his annoyance was only superficial. “Do you believe in coincidence?” he demanded.
Roger said: “Now what?”
“Remember that the pressure against the right side of the wind pipe was greater than that on the left in the Murray girl case?” asked old Dammit. “Well, this time the pressure’s greater on the left. This woman was strangled from behind. Strangler probably left-handed. Not certain, mind you, but you ought to bear it in mind. Now I formally declare that life is extinct, and if you don’t mind I’ll go and see if I can do something for people who have a little time left in this wicked world.”
Chapter Eleven
Similarities
“Not much doubt that old Dammit’s right,” Fox remarked, as he and Roger straightened up from Jennie’s body. “Wonder if there are any other similarities.”
“If there are we’d better find ’em quick,” Roger said. He glanced round at more Yard men who had arrived, some with measuring tapes and cameras. “You chaps get busy.” He went upstairs to the big room, with the old woman’s tiny bed in one comer, the chair facing the television and drawn up too closely, the whisky and the two glasses, hidden by the bottle. Roger bent down and sniffed the glasses, called Fox over, and said: “See if you can smell anything.”
Fox sniffed in turn.
“Nowt,” he announced. He stood back and stared at the shining glasses and the whisky bottle with its screw cap still tightly on, and said: “See what that means, Skipper?”
“You tell me.”
“She knew who it was. She was expecting him, but he didn’t get this far for his drink.”
“Seems like it.”
“She went down to open the door for him, and he killed her as she led the way upstairs,” Fox continued. He rocked on his heels for a moment or two, and Roger went across to the television, breathed on and peered at the dialling knob, for prints. Then he went to the switch of the electric fire; his impression was these had been wiped off. “Skipper,” Fox went on, “we could be wrong about that left-handed business.”
“We could be wrong about most theories,” Roger retorted dryly. “Why this one, in particular?” He had seen why almost as soon as he had looked closely at the body and the position on the stairs, but he was anxious to let Fox have his head; the sergeant looked like a good candidate for early promotion.
“At Alice Murray’s flat, the man’s right side was against the bed panel, and his left was free. He’d press harder with a free arm,” Fox said. “The wall of the staircase here was against his right side—you can see that from the way the woman fell. The handrail’s on the right side going up, the woman would be clutching that—I’ve seen her hauling herself upstairs. So the killer would have to get his main grip on the side away from the wall—the right. He would have room to move on the left, but be cramped on the other.”
“Nice reasoning,” Roger approved.
“Ta.”
“As far as I could see downstairs there must have been some pretty clear footprints,” Roger said, “and it looked as if the Divisional chaps covered them with some wood, we should be all right there. So get them and see if they match up with anyone we knew in the Murray case. I’ll put Gill on to checking if there are any fingerprints which match up.”
“And I’ll get busy,” Fox promised.
It was an hour before Roger left the flat and staircase, and he was pondering over the real or apparent similarities between this murder and the Murray girl’s. Strangulation; uneven pressure of the hands; association with the same business and premises. He glanced in at the shop, to find Clayton standing and still talking in a drab, ceaseless monologue to the girls. Through the window Roger saw policemen moving the crowd on; some were attempting to get closer, to look inside. He went along to the cellar and the strongroom. Divisional men had been here, but they reported no signs of theft. Roger stood in the room, which was really a cellar, and saw the shelves piled with cheap jewellery and trinkets which hadn’t been cleaned for years. There were five tall safes, all securely locked. The floor was dusty, and he could see footprints clearly as if they had been damp, and had carried away some dust, but he doubted if any could be identified. He saw some spots, each about the size of a sixpence, leading in a trail from the door towards one of the safes. This was taller and newer than most of the others. He went down on one knee, opened his case, and took out a small magnifying glass. He studied the spots carefully, then stood up and called to one of the men: “Get these covered, will you? They look like rain spots to me, and it was raining last night. Those footprints could have been made with wet boots or shoes, too. Then fetch old Clayton.”
Clayton came downstairs almost at once, and seemed eager to talk. In fact he talked so much that it was difficult to separate the real information from mournful words for words’ sake.
“There were two sets of keys, Mr. West,” he said. “One of them Mr. Anderson always had, and the other set was kept in the bank, just in case Mr. Anderson lost his, but it wasn’t very likely, it really wasn’t very likely at all. I was allowed to use the safe keys, but only Mr. Anderson or Mr. Julian had the strongroom door key, and they never let it out of their possession, I’m quite sure of that. Mr. Julian was in the process of sorting out the stock. I’m afraid that Mr. Anderson and I were rather over burdened with work and we had very little time for it, but Mr. Julian was a real worker … He used the new safe, the Cannor, that one over there.”
Clayton pointed to the safe by the spots.
“And who had the keys after Mr. Anderson died?” Roger asked.
“Why, you know very well, I did,” answered Clayton with dignity. “I would guard them with my life, Mr. West. As a matter of fact I have a special arrangement with the bank. I drop the keys into the night safe just along the road, and at a quarter to nine every morning I call at the back door of the bank and get them. There is always an official on duty at eight o’clock, to get ready for the morning rush and to count the night safe deposits.”
“Did you collect the keys this morning?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. West. No one could possibly get in here.”
Roger examined the handle of the safe closely, and began to feel uneasy, because the handle was unsmeared and probably free from prints. Surely the old man’s should be there. Without betraying his suspicions, he asked: “Will you open that safe, please?” and watched Clayton’s unsteady fingers as he thrust in the large, complicated key, and turned the lock. The safe was at least forty years old so the word ‘new’ was a euphemism, but of its kind it was a good one, and there were no signs that anyone had attempted to force it.
The door was very heavy, and he helped Clayton to pull it. So, he was the first to see that the shelves were empty.
“But that’s never been opened since Mr. Julian finished working on it,” Clayton cried. “I’ve never opened it!”
It was a routine matter to arrange with the Governor of Brixton Prison to release Julian Anderson in police custody. Roger waited at the shop for him, and it was a little after twelve o’clock when he arrived. By now, the press were there in force, someone exclaimed: “There’s Julian Anderson!” cameras flashed and there was a surge from the rear of the crowd. A reporter asked: “Are they treating you all right in Brixton, Anderson?”
Julian didn’t speak. Police forced a lane between the people, and he stepped inside the shop. Roger was waiting, met him civilly enough, and took him down to the strongroom. The girls watched from the side doorway of the shop itself, as if in awe. Old Clayton was still downstairs, and as Julian entered he came forward and put out his hands. Julian gripped them. Roger watched the man soon to stand trial for Alice Murray’s murder very closely. Julian’s face was thinner, and he looked
older; his body was thinner, too, and he did not look so immaculate in the suit which had once made him like a tailor’s dummy. He had acquired a kind of dignity, nevertheless. Roger had seen that before on people who were going through the rigours of awaiting trial for murder. ‘Tragic figure’ was still exactly the right description for him.
He let Clayton’s hands go, and turned to Roger.
“I understand that there has been a robbery here, Mr. West.”
“Yes,” Roger said, and pointed to the open door. “Can you tell me how much of value there was in this particular safe?”
Julian replied, very softly: “It was crammed full, there was no spare room. It contained at least twenty thousand pounds worth of the best antique jewellery in our possession. I had sorted it out and put it aside for a visit from a Mr. Goldstein, from New York—he is an important buyer of this kind of jewellery, and makes a yearly visit to London. It was crammed full, Mr. West.” Julian was beginning to feel the hurt, now. “It is a terrible loss, terrible.”
“Was there a list of its contents?”
“There was one inside, and one in the office,” Julian answered, and drew in a sharp breath. “Haven’t you found the one in the office?”
“Mr. Julian, it was there yesterday, I swear it was,” Clayton said. “I was looking for some old bills to see if I could make a reduction on a pair of earrings for a lady, and I actually saw it with my own eyes. But it isn’t there now.”
“Did you have a copy?” asked Roger.
Julian Anderson answered, as if this new blow had defeated him: “No, I didn’t, God forgive me. I didn’t. I thought that two were enough, Mr. West. There seemed no reason why I should take a third.” He closed his eyes, and the lids were crisscrossed with little blue veins. “The goods were to be valued soon for insurance, at the moment there is only a single overall insurance cover, no special items were insured because none was of exceptional value.”
Huskily, he went on: “What is happening here, Mr. West? Why should this place be robbed?”
“Possibly because the thieves knew that neither you nor your father had had time to make special arrangements, and it might have looked easy, with old Jennie here on her own,” Roger replied, and paused. He always seemed to be turning the screw on this man, and never liked doing it. He studied the pale face closely, and it was obvious that Julian was beginning to realise there was another shock to come. “Jennie was murdered, Mr. Anderson. Strangled. And she was strangled by somebody whom she knew. Can you supply a full list of her acquaintances?”
Julian stood absolutely still.
“Oh, dear God, dear God,” breathed Clayton.
There was nothing to read from Anderson’s expression except shock and grief. He pressed his pale hands to his forehead, and swallowed hard, then he answered in a voice that was barely audible: “I think I can, Mr. West. I think I can.” A glint sparked into his eyes, and there was a firmer tone in his voice: “Mr. West—couldn’t this have been done by the same person?” He didn’t add: ‘And if it was, then you know I didn’t kill Alice.’
“Why should the same person murder both Jennie and Miss Murray?” demanded Roger.
Julian said, in that more eager voice: “I’ve had a lot of time to think, Mr. West, and I realise that I haven’t long to save myself. I have been trying to imagine why anyone could conceivably want to kill Alice, and there is one possible motive. It wasn’t any use talking about it before because it looked like a wild guess, as nothing had been stolen. But now this has happened—” He broke off, raised his hands and clenched them, and there was a touch of colour on his pale cheeks. “Alice had access to all the keys! My father and I trusted her implicitly. Now if some man made up to her only to get hold of those keys, wouldn’t he want her dead once he got them?”
He broke off, as if hope dazzled him.
“If there was such a man, we’ll find him,” Roger said.
He wished that he were on his own, driving back to the Yard, instead of with a driver and Fox, who was sitting beside him. Fox had discovered little more, and was anxious to examine everything he had found more closely. Roger checked that nothing new had come in at his office, had a word with Cope, who seemed contented enough, went downstairs to the canteen for some sausages and mash and a steamed raisin pudding, then went back to see Fox. Fox had a dry-looking sandwich and an empty coffee cup on his bench; he would work night and day if necessary.
“What’s new?” inquired Roger.
“Not a bloody thing,” answered Fox. “I’ve checked with Fingerprints, and the only dabs in that room were the old woman’s. Nothing on the glasses, the television or the door handle. No stranger’s prints anywhere, for that matter; our chap wore gloves. Can’t get a thing from the footprints, except a guess at the size of the man’s foot: he takes nines or tens.”
“Fairly large?”
“Large,” rejoined Fox. “Those spots you saw were probably rain spots. I’ve scraped some up and analysed the scrapings as far as I can—there doesn’t seem to be more than a speck or two of dirt from the cellar floor, and a tiny bit of metal—nothing that seemed to have been carried in on the man’s shoes. This joker’s no fool. If you ask me, our main hope is to find someone who saw him. Had anything in from the boys doing the knock-and-natter job?”
“Can’t expect anything until this evening unless we get a lot of luck,” Roger said. “Found anything at all to link this up with the Murray girl?”
“Only the pressure on the neck, the sex and the Anderson tie-in,” answered Fox.
Roger moved across to a section on a shelf marked: Alice Murray. In boxes on the shelf were different exhibits which Fox had obtained – including the matches with prints, the quarter-pound chocolate boxes with the prints carefully preserved and a small plastic envelope with a label twice its size, marked: Steel Filings found on carpet in A.M.’s room. There was little doubt that someone had been in the room some time after working with a lathe, turning steel, that some of the filings had fallen on to his boots or shoes, lodged in the welts, and shaken off when he had moved about the room. Fox had made sure that these were analysed, and Roger read: Casehardened mild steel, 18% chromium, 8% nickel, tensile strength about 40 tons per square inch.
“Charley,” Roger said, sharply.
“What’s that, Skipper?” Charley Fox was sorting through dust taken from the staircase at the Anderson place, and from old Jennie’s room.
“Know what is made of steel like this?”
“Like what?” Fox turned his head; in profile, he was positively simian. “Oh, those. No, I can’t say—”
He broke off.
“Keys,” Roger said.
“Gawd!” breathed Fox.
“Keys,” Roger repeated. “And keys were used last night, although the only two sets known to be in existence were at that bank, one in its vaults and one in the night safe. So there’s a third set in existence. The set must have been made from impressions of the originals or from the originals themselves. Julian’s quite right, too—Alice Murray had access to them. How are the odds on coincidence?”
“Getting longer,” Fox declared. “If only I could get one piece of iron filing at the shop, anything that would really tie the two jobs up.” He frowned, turned round to face Roger squarely, and said: “I don’t know that I like this job much, Mr. West.”
“I can’t say I do,” Roger concurred. “The circumstantial case against Julian Anderson is as strong as ever, but we could still have the wrong man.”
“Think the Public Prosecutor’s office would withdraw the charge if we told ’em it was weaker than we thought?”
Roger said, slowly, thoughtfully: “It would be a hell of a job to persuade them to unless we could give very good reasons. The case is being built up on evidence we supplied, sound evidence, too. We haven’t found a thing to disprove any of it. It stands up
just as well today as it did a month ago—and it will stand up just as well at the Old Bailey, if it gets that far. See what we’d be up against?”
“Red tape!” Fox replied, disgustedly.
“Not just red tape,” Roger reasoned. “We’ve built up a case, and it’s a good one, because we thought we had the right man. Now we’re seeing it from the defendant’s angle of bias. All we’ve got to break it down is an uneasy feeling that we might be wrong. If we could get a tiny iron or steel filing to prove that the man who killed old Jennie killed that girl, it would be different.” He rubbed his chin, very slowly, and went on: “We could be wrong in sympathising with Julian Anderson, too. He could be working with someone else. He could have arranged for these keys to be cut. The fact that he was caught for the Munay girl’s murder doesn’t mean that he didn’t have an accomplice who is carrying on with the job.”
“The job being what?” Fox demanded.
“Remember that when the Murray girl was killed, no one realised that old Anderson would die of a heart attack,” Roger pointed out. “This is a junk shop in some ways, there’s one overall insurance cover for thirty thousand pounds and little to prove the actual value of any goods stolen. Julian might be in the racket. It’s even possible that Julian and his father were planning to rob their own shop, or else that Julian planned to rob his own father. Alice might have discovered that, so his future would be at stake in case she talked. Julian would be pretty sick if he’d been forced to kill the girl he loved, and then discovered that the shock of the conspiracy killed the old man. He’d be the tragic figure all right.”