by John Creasey
After a pause, Fox said: “I don’t know whether I feel any better or not.” He came over, and picked up the empty chocolate box which had a piece of transparent plastic fastened over the print, to preserve it; there was no real need for the photographs were in the files, but Fox always liked to keep the original evidence as long as possible. “If we could find the mate to that print we might get places. I’ve checked with Records until they hate the sight of me. Come across it one of these days, I daresay,” he added, and scowled. “I wonder if Julian is foxing us. You want to know something?” he added, and there was a gleam in his eyes. “I was one of the don’t-do-away-with-hanging boys, this is the first time I’m glad a chap convicted for murder isn’t always hanged. If Julian A. gets sent down for life, he could always get a Queen’s Pardon.”
“It’s a thought,” Roger said, and realised how heavily doubt weighed on the other man’s mind. He went back to the exhibits Fox was preparing on the Jennie murder, picked up the dust from the rain spot scrapings, and said: “Sent any of this up to the lab for analysis?”
“Yes.”
Roger peered at it, and after a long pause, went on: “Send this up, too, Charley. Make sure we don’t slip up over a trifle.”
“Suits me,” Fox agreed.
Roger looked in at Anderson’s shop on the way home that evening. No other news had come in, not a single witness appeared to have seen anyone approach the front or the back of the shop the previous night; it had been too wet and windy for people to look about them much. Old Clayton wanted to close the shop for the next day or two, but said that his conscience worried him – if they stopped trading it might mean that the eventual buyer would pay less for the goodwill. No list was found of the stolen goods. Julian Anderson was helping to prepare a list of Jennie’s acquaintances, and Clayton was to check and add to it, but there was nothing very promising in that line of inquiry yet. Julian was also drawing up a list of the set pieces of jewellery which he could remember were in the safe; this was likely to be only a rough guide, but could be sent round to jewellers and dealers, as well as to police stations up and down the country; a single set piece found on the market might help them.
One trouble was, of course, that a lot of this kind of jewellery was sold abroad.
At home, before getting out of his car, he made a note: Check if any American buyers of antique jewellery are in London; the years were teaching him that it was not wise to rely on memory. It was about half past six when he got in, quite an early evening. There was no sign of the boys, but the radio was on, and Janet was upstairs, singing to keep it company. He called out and hurried up, and she met him at the door of the bedroom. One glance was enough to tell him that she was excited.
“Darling, I’ve been over the Montifiore’s house!” she greeted. “They are asking seven thousand five hundred, but Mrs. Monty said that she thinks her husband would come down a lot. It’s a wonderful place. We’d have to go all over London to find one better.”
“My sweet,” said Roger, “at seven thousand pounds or so, we’d have to! It’s no use loading ourselves up with expenses we can’t meet. Six thousand’s the absolute limit.”
“Oh, I know,” said Janet, quite casually. “It’s impossible at the price, but—well, if it doesn’t sell in the next few weeks, he’s bound to lower his price. Every time I pass the place I shall have my heart in my mouth, in case the For Sale board is down.”
Chapter Twelve
Offer
John Payne kept his ear very close to the ground during the next few days, to find out whether a list of the Anderson goods had been circulated. None had. There had been a few inquiries from the police and several pieces had been mentioned, but no more than one piece out of twenty or thirty. By listening intently and not missing a thing when he was with others in the trade, he found out what these named pieces were; and it was a simple matter to take them out of their settings and sell them; the gold and silver of the settings could be melted down and sold at a good price. He was careful not to offer too much of anything for the next three weeks. By that time, he felt sure that the police had absolutely nothing to go on over the old woman’s murder. No arrest had been made, and it was two weeks since the case had been mentioned in the newspapers.
Payne had almost forgotten that he had killed Jennie, and Alice only came into his thoughts occasionally, when something quite unusual reminded him of her. At home, the high spirits which had followed his ‘best deal of my life’ had never really faded. Gwen was busy house-hunting. Maurice was inclined to be careless with his ten shillings a week pocket money, obviously reasoning that he would probably get more in an emergency. Hilda bought two new hats, and – coincidentally no doubt – acquired a new boy friend, and spent three evenings in one week out with him; Hilda would meet a regular boy friend before long. Payne left it to Gwen to worry about what their daughter did when she was out so late in the evenings, and Gwen seemed to be quite sure that Hilda could look after herself.
It was three and a half weeks after the shop murder, on a Saturday, when Gwen came in from the morning’s shopping heavily-laden, rather late, and with a purposefulness which told Payne that she had a lot on her mind. He had been in the workshop, taking some of the settings off Anderson jewellery. He was going to offer a quantity of it to old Benoni next Monday, and wanted to take along as much as possible. It was fascinating work, altering some settings so that they could not easily be identified, and he had always been a good craftsman. Only Gwen ever came to the workshop without knocking, and it didn’t surprise him when he saw her framed in the doorway. It was a cold, bright day early in March.
“Hallo, ducks,” Payne said. “I’ve got a piece of jade here that will just match the colour of your eyes. Like to have it?”
“In future, I want mink and diamonds,” Gwen retorted, and came in, let the door swing to on its hydraulic hinge, looked at the jade which glowed balefully under the bright electric light, and said with more interest: “It is nice, and Hilda would love it. Jack, I think I’ve found it!”
“Found what?”
“The house.”
“Go away with you,” Payne jeered. “You’ve been finding that every day for the past month!”
“I mean it, this time.”
“Nothing over twenty thousand pounds!”
“This one is seven and a half.”
“I should think we could go that high,” conceded Payne, and turned to face her, realising how earnest she was. Excitement and eagerness gave her an added vitality. “Where is it?”
“In Chelsea, of course.”
He thought: Pity. But the district did not worry him as it had a few weeks ago. “On the river?”
“Just about a perfect position.” He had never known Gwen so enthusiastic about anything. “It’s on the corner of Bell Street and Greenways Avenue—not far from Manville Street.”
“Where?” Payne demanded, and the street name stabbed through him, bringing fear, bringing the urgent desire to say: ‘It’s impossible!’ He had made Gwen see that it had really shaken him, and now had to find a reason. He gulped, grinned, and said: “Not in that slum!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen retorted sharply. “It’s not a slum. It’s one of the best residential parts of Chelsea, and there aren’t many places with fairly modern houses in them. This one is exactly right. It was built in nineteen thirty seven, when building materials were really good, and …”
She talked not only persuasively, but with the kind of purposefulness which told Payne that he would have a difficult task to turn her off this house. Was it worth worrying about? At first, there had been the fear of danger, the possibility that he would be recognised, but the heat was well off by now. He had no sentimental regard for Alice Murray, and now knew that he would think less and less often about her as time went on. He knew Bell Street extremely well, and there was no need to pass
Number 24 Manville Street to get to the buses or to get to the river.
“… and I’ve arranged to meet the agent there this afternoon, at half past three,” Gwen announced. “Maurice will be watching Fulham play, but Hilda’s coming—she’s had a tiff with her boy friend. And,” Gwen added, putting her head on one side and staring at him intently, “you had better like it, lover-boy.”
“I still think it’s a poor district,” Payne said; it would be folly to give in too easily.
“Don’t talk out of the back of your neck,” retorted Gwen. “It’s only five minutes from the new technical school, too, exactly right for Maurice. Lunch will be half an hour late,” she added, “but I’ll have it dished up by half past one sharp.”
She went off, briskly.
Payne said, sotto voce: “Well, if she wants it she’d better have it.” The way she had looked when she had come in, and the gleam in her eyes, remained with him. He had been so busy planning and thinking about the main job that he had not given Gwen much thought in the past few weeks. It was time he did. He was doing all this for her, wasn’t he? He stood with the piece of jade in his right hand, the gold setting in the other, and stared into the stone. Was he doing it for Gwen? He had told himself all along that he was: she needed beautiful clothes and furs and jewellery, she was a woman in a million. He found his thoughts slipping back to the time when he had first met her, and had promised her the earth. Even then, she had half-mocked him.
“You make sure we don’t starve, Jack, and that’s all you need to worry about.”
Well, they hadn’t starved. In fact, he had done fairly well, but all the time he had felt that sense of insecurity and of failure, because he had not given Gwen what he had promised. Deep down, there was always the feeling, perhaps the fear, that in spite of her banter she had been disappointed. She had never reproached him, but it had been Gwen who had first called the house a rabbit hutch; Gwen who had gone up to the January sales and fought to get the good clothes for the children, for herself and for him; Gwen who had always kept the family a cut above the ordinary. So it was true to say that he had really done all this for her; she had kept urging him on.
He wondered what she would think if she knew what he had done.
He had an eerie, shiver)’ feeling that there would be a very different light in her eyes, that she would be horrified.
What would Hilda think?
What would Maurice think?
Payne found his mouth going dry, felt the cold striking along his back to his head, his legs and his arms, although it wasn’t cold in here. He had never posed that question before, and now it seemed to scream at him. What would they think? Would they shrink away from him? Could anything make Gwen do that? He looked down at his hands, so strong, clean and lean, used to handling the tools of his trade, each finger very powerful. There was as much strength in the left as in the right one, too. He pictured them, curling round, crooking themselves, burying themselves into human flesh. He remembered the way his fingers had seemed to embed themselves into Alice’s fair neck, when for a moment he had not been able to free them; and he remembered how dry and sinewy the old woman’s neck had been.
He was sweating all over.
He thought: They mustn’t ever know. They needn’t ever know.
And – only the best was good enough for Gwen. He had always known that, and deep down inside him there had been that determination to get it for her. There had been no other way, and – what good had money been to old Anderson? Didn’t Julian have enough? They wouldn’t hang Julian – after a few years in prison they would release him, as they always did, these days; society had gone soft.
They would hang him, John Payne, if they ever proved that he had killed these two women, because two murders still meant the gallows.
What was the matter with him? Why was he thinking like this? Why had Gwen sparked off such a morbid train of thought? He stood quite still except for a little spasm of shivering which seemed to start from his feet and work upwards, and told himself that he must get on top of himself; he had a little time to spare, yet. He made himself put the jade and the setting down on the bench, took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and face, but his whole body seemed clammy; what he wanted was a bath. Well, why not? He had been working very hard, and there had been too much strain at his nerves. He could relax for half an hour, have a good meal, go and see this house and see whether Gwen was as serious as she seemed to be; then they would go up to the West End somewhere for tea. Maurice could meet them afterwards, and they could go to a show. It would be a real family evening out, now that Hilda had broken it off with the boy friend, and there was no reason why it shouldn’t be one of the happiest they had had for years. It was some time since he had blown ten quid in the West End.
This is what he would do; he felt better already!
He went out, locked the workshop door carefully behind him, slid the key into his pocket, and began to whistle. He hoped that he looked all right, now. Gwen wasn’t in the kitchen and that was a good thing; there was little risk of being seen. He went whistling up the stairs, feeling better and bolder every second, and turned into the bathroom. There she was, glancing round from the hand basin to look at him, water running over her hands.
“Hi, ducks,” he said. “Time for me to have a bath before lunch?”
“Just about,” answered Gwen, and looked at him curiously. She always seemed to be able to see through his thoughts, it was almost impossible to deceive her. “How are you feeling, Jack?”
“Never better!”
“Listen, lover-boy, you don’t have to put on an act with me,” Gwen said. “You’ve been working all the hours that God gave you lately. I don’t want to buy a new house if it means you’re going to have to work yourself to the bone in order to pay for it.”
“No, it isn’t that,” he assured her eagerly, and he could have laughed, she was so wide of the mark. She knew there was plenty on his mind, but would never dream what it was. “It’s just that I’ve been working up to a climax for years! These jewels are exactly what we want. That American buyer will be in London next week, and a lot depends on the actual figure he’ll pay me for the stock from that Watford place, but whatever it is, it won’t interfere with our plans. We can afford that house, and we can afford—”
“Let’s get the house and get it properly furnished, and then see what comes next,” Gwen said practically. “You’re sure, Jack? You haven’t got into debt, have you?”
“Good God, no!”
His vehemence made Gwen laugh.
“That question even surprised you, so I’ll believe you,” she said. “Don’t be more than twenty minutes.” She dodged past him, rightly guessing that he would try to grab her, and went laughing down the stairs. So she had been aware that something was the matter, she had been watching him closely. It was always essential to have a good convincing story for her; there were no flies on Gwen!
He began to run the bath.
A little before three o’clock, he turned the car into Bell Street, his mind shadowed by the fact that when he had last come along here, it had been on Maurice’s bicycle. He drew up towards the end of the street, in the parking space which he had used for the bicycle; it must be about the same spot. He pulled up, feeling a little queasy, but Gwen was already opening the door, and Hilda was squeezing out of the back door of the small car, sharing her mother’s excitement.
Gwen looked down at the kerb, and called: “You’re a bit out at the back, Jack.”
He waved acknowledgment, and took the car forward. That gave him a few seconds to recover, and also gave him something to do. When he reversed, Gwen called: “Too far!” and a moment later he bumped the kerb. He went forward again, then reversed perfectly, and as he got out, Gwen was grumbling:
“You’ll have to take your test again if you go on at this rate, and as for bu
ying a Jaguar—”
“Rolls Royce!”
“I’ll settle for a Bentley,” Hilda put in. “Dad, do come on.” She and her mother went ahead, arm-in-arm, towards the house on the corner.
This stood in its own grounds, with smooth lawns on the Bell Street side. There was a brick built garage, and a carriageway with two entrances. The house itself was of two storeys, built of red brick, and with wooden beams showing, an imitation Tudor style which was not displeasing. It looked solid, and probably seemed larger than it was because it was so much larger than most of its neighbours. Farther along the street towards King’s Road dozens of houses stood in their own small plot of land, each with neat hedge, most with small trees in the front gardens. Some almond and cherry blossom trees were already out, beautiful pink umbrellas. There were five in the garden of Cornerways, and they softened the brick and lent both quality and attractiveness which might otherwise have been missing. The carriageway was made of crazy paving, and Payne saw that this was well-laid; the place had a prewar solidity which it was hard to come by these days.
He liked what he first saw of it.
He did not like grey-haired eagle-nosed Mrs. Monty-something who showed them over the house. He did not like the furniture, which was all dark mahogany, heavy and Victorian, and reminded him of old Anderson’s flat. But he liked the rooms, and could see that very little new decoration would have to be done for a year or two; give Gwen a newly decorated bedroom and sitting room, and she would be crowing over all the neighbours. He saw her peering into cupboards and corners as if already deciding where to put the pots and pans, the linen and the cleaning equipment. The kitchen, which might so easily have been old fashioned, was in fact modem, bright and gay.
The one snag, if snag it was, was in Mrs. Monty-something. She seemed determined to run the house down, and certainly wasn’t trying to sell it. Gwen seemed to ignore this, but the little woman annoyed Payne; he wanted to shut her mouth.