by John Creasey
There was time all right, but this was the last chance.
Gwen; Maurice; Hilda.
He looked at the bedroom clock, which was on the mantelpiece over the gas fire; it was now nearly a quarter to ten. He had three quarters of an hour to get everything ready. He went out, with the fire glowing red and hissing gently. He closed the door, to make sure that the room was warm for Gwen. He went into Hilda’s room, lit the gas fire there, watched it for a few seconds, and then glanced into Maurice’s room; Maurice did not have the fire on often, he preferred a cold atmosphere. Payne went down on one knee and turned the tap to make sure that it was working; and such a blast of gas came that he snapped it off. He went out, and hurried downstairs. He helped himself to another whisky and soda, and then busied himself in the kitchen; only now and again did he prepare a supper snack for the family, but it had happened once or twice recently, and although they would be pleasantly surprised, there would be nothing remarkable about it.
Maurice preferred cold beef, and there was some. Gwen liked the beef with plenty of HP sauce on it; he made her sandwiches with great care, putting plenty of butter on the bread. Hilda would almost certainly rather have a cheese spread, so he made some of these, put out cheese and biscuits, then got everything ready to make the drinks. By the time he had finished it was twenty minutes past ten. Should he go and meet them? There was always the risk of missing them, and he would hate them to come home and find the house empty. On the other hand, he hadn’t yet put the car away, so he had to go out for five minutes. He went to the telephone, and called the cinema.
“What time does the last performance end, please?”
“Ten thirty five, sir, for the Queen.”
“Thanks,” Payne said. That gave him time to put the car away but not to go and collect the family; they wouldn’t expect him, and there was a bus practically to the door. He went out the front way, and noticed a slight smell of burning, but he assumed it was from a garden fire. He walked to the car, got in, and was soon getting out again, inside the garage. He could close the main doors and go in the back way, checking on Fox as he did so, or he could go to the front. There was just a chance that the rest of the family would be early, and, in any case, he felt like going to the bus stop to meet them.
He did not want to see Fox’s body. So he did not go out the back way, and therefore did not smell the gas which was escaping through the broken workshop window. He hung about the bus stop for ten minutes, then saw Gwen standing up inside a bus; he was at the stop to help her off, and he saw how pleased she was. Hilda started to talk very quickly about the feature film, holding her father’s arm. Gwen walked on the other side, Maurice led the way, to open the front door. They were laughing and gay as they went inside. They would go straight into the kitchen, of course, and Gwen would want to put a kettle on right away. He went ahead, so that he could see her expression when she saw what he had prepared.
It could not have been more satisfying. Her fine eyes lit up, she beamed across at him, and Hilda, with that tendency to be over demonstrative, came across and gave him a hug. It was exactly as he had believed it would be. Maurice was looking very tired, but elected to eat downstairs and to have his milk upstairs. Hilda kept talking although her eyes looked as if they would not keep open, but she had her drink downstairs, with obvious relish.
Gwen stirred the sugar in her tea more thoroughly than usual, tucked into the sandwiches and, when the children had gone up, said: “Are you coming to bed straight away, Jack?”
He knew exactly what she meant. He knew that she would be asleep within half an hour, too; she was looking tired. He went across to her, took her in his arms and held her so tightly that he heard her catch her breath; then he released her, and said quietly:“I’ve a bit of a headache, honey. I think I’ll take a stroll after you’re tucked in.”
He often did that.
He heard her saying goodnight to the children; every sound and every word seemed to have a special significance. He heard her close the door of the children’s rooms, and then walk across the landing to the bathroom, and, five minutes afterwards, go into their room. He went upstairs, and sat in the corner chair, by the window, watching her. She was very tired already, but nothing could alter the voluptuousness of her movements and the natural seductiveness of her body. He watched without real excitement. He saw her slide her nightdress over her head, and wriggle to make it fall down. He did not get up to go to her, but just watched. She yawned.
“I’m tired out tonight,” she said. “I can’t make out what’s the matter with me.”
“Excitement, and the thought of spending all that money, I expect!” Payne jested. He watched her get into bed, then went across and bent over her, and kissed her with a passion which seemed to well up in him, which made his heart throb and brought stinging tears to his eyes. When he drew back, he saw the way Gwen looked up at him from the pillows, and felt a sudden fear: that he had kissed her too harshly, and so warned her that something was wrong.
“You’re all right, Jack, aren’t you?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m fine, apart from this headache.”
“If that’s how a headache makes you kiss, you can have one more often,” she riposted. Her eyes were bright with tiredness, and she stifled a yawn again. “Sure everything’s all right?”
“It’s exactly as I planned,” he assured her. “I’ll put out the light.” In fact he knew that he was speaking with a more subdued voice than usual, that he was giving her plenty of reason for thinking that there was something the matter, but she was too tired to take much notice.
Wasn’t she?
He put out the light, closed the door, and then stood listening; if she got out of bed, the springs would creak, and he would know. Had he aroused any suspicions? He heard no sound at all. He could see her in his mind’s eye, lying so still. He waited for fully five minutes, then turned and went to the doors of the other rooms; there was no sound from either. He looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes past eleven. He went downstairs and poured out another whisky, without any soda this time. He sat stretched out in his armchair, seeing Gwen everywhere; in bed and out. He was going upstairs to lie down beside her, of course, and it was the only way. What a hell of a thing to have to do. At least he had saved them all from the knowledge which would have caused them so much hurt, it was an act he would never regret.
He gave a twisted grin; there wouldn’t be much time to regret.
He waited for twenty minutes, then went upstairs. He crept into Hilda’s room, and turned the gas on full, closed the door, and went into Maurice’s. He had to close Maurice’s window as well as draw the curtains, but the boy did not stir. When he went out, the door dragged on the carpet, so little or no gas would escape. He crossed the little landing to his own room, and went inside; he could just make out the soft sound of Gwen’s breathing. He did not need a light but felt his way across to the foot of the bed, then by sense of touch to the fireplace. There was still a little warmth coming from it. He groped, found the tap, and turned it; immediately there was a loud hissing, but Gwen noticed nothing, although the escaping gas muffled the sound of her breathing. Payne eased his collar and tie, and went out. He could not be sure, but believed that an hour would be long enough; if the police did not come within the hour, he would go upstairs and lie down by Gwen’s side.
Meanwhile, he had to prepare a reception party for the police, in case they came. He must be at the front of the house. He must say that Fox had been here and talked to him, and left – left only a few minutes before they had arrived. If they believed him and went off, there would be nothing to worry about. If they didn’t believe him—
He knew exactly what to do.
He went into the tiny dining room, drew the curtains, and turned on the gas fire to full strength. He went out and closed the door. If any policemen came and insisted on searching the house, he would
bring them here, and as he opened the door, would flick his cigarette lighter. To make sure of getting a good flame, he refilled the lighter, and tested it several times.
A naked flame inside that room would cause a terrific explosion and send the whole house up in flames.
Janet West leaned forward, turned down the volume of the radio so that the music was almost inaudible, and looked across at Roger, who was buried in some Home Office crime statistics. He seemed so absorbed that she hesitated to disturb him, but when a car passed along outside, and silence followed it, she could not keep quiet any longer.
“Where are those boys?” she demanded.
He looked up, his eyes touched with the faraway expression which she knew only too well; give him anything to do with work, and he would lose himself in it completely
“What time is it?” He glanced at the striking clock on the mantelpiece of the front room, and raised his eyebrows. “Quarter to twelve—I suppose they are a bit late.”
“They’re over half an hour late,” Janet said. “I never did like these eleven o’clock evenings, I don’t care what you say it’s too late for boys of their age to be out.” Roger knew better than to grin at her. “And you can’t be sure that they haven’t picked up with some girls. Richard’s too young, even if it does amuse you that Scoopy—”
She broke off.
“I think I heard them,” Roger said, and they listened intently to sounds in the street. Someone called out in a subdued voice, and Richard answered: “Goodnight.”
“I don’t hear Scoop,” said Janet.
“If Richard’s there, Scoop will be,” Roger declared. “No, don’t go and stand on the doorstep waiting for them, it’s much better to let them feel grown up.” When Janet sat back in her chair with a gesture of mingled exasperation and resignation, he went on: “They’ll put their bikes away and be here in a couple of minutes.”
He put his papers down and listened, and then began to frown.
“Roger, there is only one of them,” Janet exclaimed, and jumped out of her chair. “Richard!” she called, knowing that the boy might hear her before he started along the passage by the side of the house. “Richard!” She beat Roger to the front door, and pulled it open. “Richard!”
Roger was just behind her.
“Hallo, Mum,” Richard responded, and Roger could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t as conscience-clear as he ought to be. “Isn’t Scoop home yet?”
“What do you mean?” Janet demanded. “Of course he isn’t home. You’ve been together all the evening, haven’t you?”
The light fell brightly on to Richard’s face. He had a slightly puffy nose, from boxing, but was not marked otherwise. There was anxiety as well as that hint of guilty conscience in his manner.
“Well, no, Mum,” he confessed. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t come to the club tonight. He—”
Janet went very still, but did nothing to stop the boy from telling his story. When it was half finished, Roger walked quietly to the front room, and called the Yard.
“Get in touch with Detective Sergeant Fox, find out when he last reported, see if he had anyone else working with him on the Payne investigation tonight,” he ordered in short, clipped sentences. “Have a patrol car wait for me in Richmond Hill Road—get it there as soon as you can.” He waited only for the response, banged down the receiver, and strode towards the door. The others were coming in, Richard looking pale and scared, and Janet saying in a tense voice: “Roger, there’s no possible danger, is there?”
“Not the slightest reason to think there is,” Roger assured her. He could not tell her that Payne was suspected of two vicious murders, but there was something in his expression which warned her that he was not telling the truth. “I’m going over to the house. You wait here, and—”
“We’re not waiting, we’re coming,” Janet declared.
The patrol car was waiting near the garden of the empty house, with some Divisional men, who had already discovered Fox’s car and Martin’s bicycle. There was a light on at the front of Payne’s house – the only light at a window within a hundred yards.
“You watch from the other side of the road,” Roger told the three men in the patrol car. “The Division will watch the back from neighbouring gardens. Jan, you and Richard must wait in the car. Don’t get out—that’s an order. If Payne runs for it we can’t risk you getting in the way. I’ll go and talk to him myself, for a start.” He looked bleak and grim as he turned and went off, crossing the road and gradually looking smaller as he approached the lights at the window of Payne’s house.
It was then a little after midnight.
Chapter Eighteen
Last Blow
Roger saw Payne sitting in a chair near the window, craning his neck round as if he had heard footsteps and was half expecting a caller. Was he expecting the police? Roger went straight to the front door. He felt certain that Payne could not escape the cordon, and was more sure than ever that the first essential was to talk to the man. The fact that Martin had been near here for over three hours was frightening; he would have to use all the finesse he could, to make sure that no harm came to the boy – unless harm already had.
He saw Payne get up, tall, handsome, grimfaced.
Roger rang the front door bell as footsteps sounded in the passage. There was a long pause before the man drew near. Roger stood to one side, not sure what kind of reception he would get, but Payne stood outlined against the light, tall and massive in a narrow hall. Roger could just see the doorway to the right, behind the man, and the narrow staircase, which led straight to a landing which was out of sight.
“What is it?” Payne demanded gruffly.
That wasn’t a normal approach, and there was nothing normal about his manner. Roger sensed his tension, and at the same time sensed danger; here was a killer, a man who might strike at any moment, savage, vicious, murderous. He wanted to see the man’s face, wanted to read what he could in his eyes.
He noticed a faint – a very faint – smell of gas.
He spoke in his mildest voice, and actually managed to smile, although he was so acutely aware of Janet and Richard across the road.
“I’m sorry to worry you so late, Mr. Payne, but I wonder if you can help me,” he said. “I live in Bell Street—I believe you are thinking of buying a house there.”
He heard Payne’s heavy breathing become shallow, and was not surprised when the man drew back a little and stared, as if seeking recognition.
“I am, but I don’t see how it affects you.” His voice was very harsh, there was all the evidence of great tension.
“You’ve every right to kick me out if I’m wrong,” Roger said, and smiled as if he were really sorry to be making a nuisance of himself. “Er—I have a young son, named Martin.”
He could see Payne’s face better, and did not think that the name of Martin meant anything to the man. He did see some indication of surprise, and thought that the physical tension in this man eased a little; that showed in the way Payne’s shoulders sagged, the way his right hand dropped from the door. He was holding something in it, a petrol lighter which glinted.
“I still don’t see what it’s got to do with me,” Payne said.
“As a matter of fact, Martin has seen your wife and daughter several times, and boy-like, he’s got a crush on your daughter,” Roger went on pleasantly. “Apparently he found out where you live, and came to call on her tonight. His brother says that your daughter wasn’t in, and that my son Martin decided to wait. It’s so late now that I wondered if you knew anything about this.”
He saw Payne grin; and he sensed the man’s enormous relief. He stepped forward a little, and Payne backed at once.
“Silly young pup,” he said with bluff humour, “but I can’t blame anyone for falling for my Hilda! She’s been home and in bed the las
t hour, she certainly hasn’t seen your kid.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t,” Payne retorted. He was obviously much more confident than he had been, and aggressiveness followed that. “The whole family was out at the pictures except me. They’ve been home over an hour. Your kid’s probably mooning around somewhere, scared to come home.”
“Possibly,” said Roger, frowning. “His mother is extremely anxious about him, of course.” He paused, and smelt the gas more strongly; there was much more inside the passage than there had seemed to be at the front door. The man seemed to be telling the truth, even seemed to be delighted at the turn of events, but he wouldn’t be delighted for long. He went on, without changing his tone of voice: “Where is my man Fox, Mr. Payne?”
He saw Payne’s mouth tighten, saw his eyes narrow, saw how his body seemed to gather itself for some physical effort. A car horn tooted lightly, from across the road; that would be Janet. She would be able to see Roger so far, but when he went further into the house and was out of sight, she would probably find it impossible to stay in the car.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Payne growled.
“I think you do,” Roger said. “He was coming to ask you some questions tonight—about the murder of Jennie Campbell. I am a police officer, and—”
“Damned swine!” Payne’s lips hardly seemed to open as he spoke, and he must have, realised that the change in his manner had given him away. He put his left hand to his lips, and raised the cigarette lighter a little; it was a very large one. “I haven’t seen anyone except my family tonight, and I don’t know any Jennie Campbell.”
Roger said: “Payne, that kind of lie won’t help you. A hundred people can prove that you knew Jennie.” He was close enough now to make quite sure that there was no physical danger from the other, and yet could not quite understand the situation or Payne’s attitude. Martin might not have been inside here, but Fox probably had, remember.