Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  “Where’s that?” asked Roger.

  “It’s a holiday hot-spot on the South Queensland coast – part of the Gold Coast, you must have heard of that.” Roger didn’t say so, but he hadn’t. “There was Perce Sheldon, an insurance broker, he did the trip for his health.” Limm almost leered. “He ate enough for two. Except for old Sam Hackett, that’s the lot. Liveliest near-octogenarian I ever met, Sam was. Looked like a piece of twisted gum root after a forest fire. He said he’d made his money in pearls and mother-of-pearl before the trade collapsed up on the West Coast.”

  Limm obviously knew his Australia.

  “Very comprehensive – many thanks,” Roger said. “May I borrow this photograph?”

  “So long as you mean borrow.”

  “My word on it.”

  “I’ll accept that.” Limm smiled almost freely for the first time since he had been told of Denise Morrison’s death. “Will you look for Doreen?”

  “Her description will be put on general call before I go home tonight,” Roger promised.

  “You’re right,” Limm said. His grin appeared again but was short-lived. “I don’t understand them breaking up, and I don’t understand why Doreen didn’t get in touch with the police the minute she saw that photograph. It doesn’t make sense.” He seemed to square his shoulders again. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to see Denise?”

  Limm obviously steeled himself to show no emotion when the girl’s face was uncovered in that chill, brightly lit morgue.

  Roger watched intently from across the bench, Kebble by Limm’s side.

  Abruptly, Roger pulled the sheet down to the bare shoulders, to show the bruised neck. Limm’s composure broke. He clenched his teeth and clenched his hands.

  Someone had clenched strong hands round that girl’s throat not very long ago.

  “For God’s sake find Doreen,” he said hoarsely.

  Doreen Morrison was only about three miles away. She was asleep in a small, ill-furnished room, alone on a divan bed. She breathed so softly that she hardly seemed to be breathing at all. Had her eyes been open, the pin-point pupils would have betrayed the fact that she had been drugged with morphine.

  2

  Second Witness

  Limm had gone from Roger West’s office.

  Kebble had finished his notes; he would type them or have them typed in the morning. It was now nearly six o’clock, but he did not give the impression that he was fidgeting to be off. He had not asked Roger’s opinion, and so shown considerable restraint. Roger finished signing some letters, rang for a messenger, and, as the man went out with the post, looked across at Kebble.

  “What did you make of Limm?”

  Kebble looked up quickly.

  “Can’t see any reason for suspecting he knows more than he said.”

  “Think he does?” asked Roger.

  Kebble ventured, “I thought you thought he did.”

  “Not yet,” Roger said. “I simply think he might, on the principle that we can’t rule anyone out.” He went on as if speaking to himself. “We’re not allowed to presume guilt so why should we presume innocence?” He hoped that didn’t sound as pretentious as it seemed to him. “Now, we’ve a lot to do. Any special date tonight?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Roger stretched out for the telephone, speaking as he did so. “Take that snapshot up to Photography, have enlargements done of all the faces, get the prints of the Morrison sisters sent round to all Divisions and Home Counties tonight.”

  Into the telephone he said, “Get my wife, please.”

  He put the receiver down and went on to Kebble without a pause. “Find out from the shipping company where the SS Kookaburra is now. If she’s in London, check with the port police and Thames Division – I’d like to see the Captain and the crew. If she’s not in London, find out where she is. Then get a full passenger list, with the English addresses of all passengers who landed at Southampton – any British port, for that matter.”

  His telephone bell rang.

  “Got all that?”

  “I think so,” Kebble said.

  Roger’s hand hovered impatiently over the telephone. “Think?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Get things started, then come and see me again.”

  Roger lifted the telephone. “West. . . oh, put him through. . .” His tone changed but he was still brisk. “Hallo, Scoop, is Mum out?”

  Kebble, disappearing through the door, was looking round at him.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Martin-called-Scoop, Roger’s elder son. “Yes, she’s gone over to Mrs Pollster’s, to some cocktail party or other. She said she would be back by seven, though.”

  “Tell her I may not be back until late,” Roger said. “Had a good day?”

  “Pretty good. I finished that painting of the newspaper boy. I think it’s all right.”

  “Try painting a millionaire,” said Roger. “He’d be more likely to buy his portrait.”

  “Never heard of art for art’s sake?” asked Martin, with a hint of laughter in his voice.

  “Try living on it,” retorted Roger. “How’s Fish?”

  Martin chuckled. “He’s in a hell of a stew. He’s got the inside out of that old MG and can’t find one of the pistons or something. He’s sulphurous.”

  “Don’t make him feel any worse,” Roger cautioned.

  “I won’t get the chance. Dad . . .?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s on?”

  “Bad men up to no good,” Roger said bluffly.

  “Don’t put me off. Is it that girl? I mean the one whose photograph was in The Globe this morning?”

  It was always a delicate matter to know how much to tell his sons, and how much to discourage them in their natural curiosity, but there was no point in hedging over this.

  “Yes,” Roger said simply.

  “It’s a damned shame.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I mean, a pretty girl like that.”

  “Don’t judge entirely from looks,” Roger said automatically. “Scoop, I really must go. Don’t forget to tell Mum.”

  He rang off, and paused to look at Denise Morrison’s photograph, trying to imagine how she would appear to a youth of twenty. ‘A damned shame.’ That summed up Scoop; his quick involvement in other people’s affairs, and his ready sympathy despite an outward show of toughness. What would he say if he knew about the so far silent sister?

  Roger put his son out of his mind, made some notes on a pad, then lifted the telephone.

  “I’ll be out of the office for five minutes,” he said.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Roger went along the nearer passage and up a flight of stairs, moving with controlled haste, a sign of tension, an indication of the vitality always in him; he could never get anywhere or do any job quickly enough for his own liking. He reached a sergeants’ room, the one where Kebble should be, by rights. A man was talking on the telephone.

  As Roger drew nearer, he said, “Don’t blame me, Kitty, blame his devotion to duty . . . all right, all right! Blame my new boss, the great Handsome West . . . yes, West . . . Kitty,” the man went on in almost horrified tones, “that’s as near sacrilege as you can get about anyone at Scotland Yard.” He laughed. “Stay in and be good for once.”

  He rang off.

  Roger, who wanted to send a sergeant to check on Benjamin Limm, walked past the partly-open door without glancing in. So Kebble had lied about not having a date, a strong point in his favour. Roger soon turned back, to find two sergeants sitting on stools in front of old-fashioned high desks; they slid off almost to attention.

  “Who’s not busy?” Roger enquired, amiably.

  One of the men, a short, almost dap
per man named Scott, gave a one-sided smile.

  “I’ve nothing that can’t wait, sir.”

  “Good. Here’s all I can tell you about the man Limm, who came to see me just now.” Roger handed over some of the notes. “Check the address he gave, how long he’s been there, get anything you can about him – all very discreetly. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Call me as soon as you can,” Roger said. “I’ll be in my office until eight o’clock at least. If I’ve gone by the time you’ve a report to make, call me at my house.”

  “I’ll do that,” promised Scott.

  Roger nodded and went out. As he neared his own office the telephone was ringing incessantly, yet he had told the operator that he would be out, and operators seldom slipped up. With his natural kind of restrained haste, he opened the door, stretched across, and picked up the telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, Mr West, I know you said you’d be out, but I’ve a man on the line who says he has to catch a plane in five minutes but wants a word with the officer in charge of the girl’s photograph case.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. “I’ll talk to him.”

  There was hardly a pause before the man came on the line. The first obvious thing was that his voice resembled Limm’s, in the sense that the pronunciation of vowels was different from normal English. Over the telephone it sounded loud and harsh, not at all like Limm’s.

  “Are you handling the inquiry about the girl whose photo is in The Globe?”

  It had been in all the newspapers except The Times; it was surprising how often The Globe was mentioned.

  “I can tell you who she is,” the man stated.

  “Are you sure?”

  “My word, yes. They don’t come like Denise Morrison very often. I sailed from Australia on the same ship, the SS Kookaburra. Yes, sir, I’m sure. She was with her sister, Doreen. Superintendent, she’s not in any trouble, is she?”

  “I’m afraid she is,” Roger said quietly.

  “That’s bad. I wish I hadn’t got to go, but I had just three months sick leave, and if I’m not home by Wednesday I’ll be in trouble. My name’s Sheldon, Superintendent, Perce Sheldon. I’m from Adelaide in South Australia – insurance is my racket. Let me know if I can help, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Roger said. “What flight are you going on?”

  “Flight 107 from London Airport,” said Sheldon. “They’re calling it right now. I hope Denise isn’t in too much trouble. She was a beaut of a girl to have on board ship.”

  He banged down his receiver.

  Roger put his down almost as quickly, made several notes before hearing footsteps outside; Kebble had been a long time in Photography but he might have stopped somewhere else on the way. He was frowning as the door closed behind him with a snap, pushed harder than was necessary.

  Roger finished his notes.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Missed ‘em by five minutes,” Kebble said gloomily.

  “Who did you miss?”

  “The shipping agents. There’s only the caretaker in the office now. I spent too long researching on them,” Kebble went on disconsolately. His forehead sloped back a little, his jaw almost fell away into his neck, yet gave no impression of weakness. “I thought if I found out the manager’s name it would help, but—” His Adam’s apple wobbled. “It’s Smith.”

  “Get after him first thing in the morning,” Roger said. “We’ve just had confirmation that the girl was on the SS Kookaburra, and that her name is Morrison. I’ve sent Scott to check on Limm. What did Photography say?”

  “The photo will be ready for the teleprinter by eight thirty.”

  “No problems?”

  “Old George grumbled about having to treat it as urgent,” Kebble said. He was standing straight in front of Roger. “Is it so urgent, sir?”

  Roger sat back, one hand in his trouser pocket.

  “It could be. If it is, we’ve made a good start and we can really get moving in the morning. If it isn’t – no harm’s done.”

  He wondered about the missed date with Kitty, what Kitty was like, what the missing Doreen was like. The photograph had been a poor guide, but the enlargement should help. The missing sister worried him, and somehow got under his skin.

  “I see,” Kebble said. “So that’s how you do it?”

  Roger only half heard. “Eh?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kebble said hurriedly.

  Roger forced himself to recall the words, and with a half smile he asked, “So that’s how I do what?”

  Kebble flushed, and it made him look more than ever like a gobbler.

  “I don’t want to seem impertinent, sir.”

  “Did you mean to be?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then let’s have it.”

  Kebble gave a rather high-pitched laugh.

  “You’re something of a legend to us younger men, Superintendent. Always pulling off the impossible. If you get moving as quickly as you have over this it means you’ve a yard start on anyone else – it’s like perpetual motion. That’s all I meant, sir.”

  “That’s enough butter,” Roger said, not ill-pleased. “Detection is like genius, the infinite capacity for taking pains. It couldn’t be simpler.” After a brief pause, he went on, “Telephone London Airport and find out if a Perce or Percival Sheldon was on Flight 107 for Australia, will you?”

  Sheldon was a tall man, in his fifties, running to fat. His luggage was on board the aircraft except for a briefcase and a raincoat, which he carried. He looked hot, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration. His collar was a little too large for him, and the knot of his tie was askew. He stepped out of the telephone booth, jammed his paunch against the handle, then eased himself free; he was too used to such inconveniences to take any notice.

  The disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “This is the last call for passengers for Flight 107. Will Mrs Georgina Thomas and Mr Percival Sheldon please report at the gangway immediately.”

  A little woman with a mass of artificial flowers for a hat began to scamper across the lounge, big shiny handbag banging against her knees, umbrella poking out from beneath her arm, a look of dismay on her face. Sheldon thought, ‘That’s Georgina Thomas. I wonder how far she’s going.’ He quickened his pace, something he never liked doing because he became out of breath so easily. He saw a man reading The Globe, and on the page turned towards him was the photograph of Denise Morrison.

  “Hope she’s all right.” He had a habit of talking to himself. “Hope I did the right thing. I —”

  He broke off, missed his step and went staggering forward. He was so out of control that he banged bodily into a young girl, and sent her flying, too. A youth by her side cried, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Sheldon didn’t hear. He was pitching forward on to the thick red carpet. Pain shot through his chest as if a knife had been driven between his ribs. The pain was so great he could not cry out, he could not breathe, he could do nothing but let his flabby body go where it would.

  “Careful!” a man called out.

  “He’s sick,” a woman said in a clear American accent.

  “Mind away there!”

  Sheldon finally lost his balance. As he fell, his right arm flopped against an upright ashtray, sending it clattering, and cigarette butts and ash flying. He hit the floor with a heavy thump, quivered, and lay still. His lips were parted and he was breathing through them – just breathing. His eyes were half closed, glazed, lifeless.

  “Get a doctor,” a man called urgently.

  “Doctor?”

  “Fetch a doctor.”

  “Doctor!”

  An official of the airport came up, wit
h the positive manner of a person who was determined to stop all this fuss. A thickset man among the gathering crowd moved forward and announced, “I’m a doctor.”

  They were the last words heard by dying Perce Sheldon. They seemed to bring a crystal clear message of hope, but as the doctor bent over him another spasm of agonising pain seemed to split his chest in two, his head in two, finally cleaved his whole body.

  3

  Alarm

  Roger turned over the page of a preliminary report on the Denise Morrison case, already half wishing that he had not decided to stay late. There had seemed so much to do, but most of it would have to wait until morning; nothing yet justified summoning the shipping company manager back to his office. Kebble was waiting for the airport call to come through. Roger ran a finger down the list of people who had ‘identified’ the girl. It was odd that no one who really knew her had got in touch with the police until late afternoon – The Globe was a morning paper. It was odd, too, that no one else had recognised her; girls from Australia weren’t rarities here, usually they were quick to meet and make friends with others from their home country. There were private hotels and boarding-houses kept by Australians whose boarders came almost exclusively from down under. It was difficult to believe that the girl had made no friends in London. In any case, there was the sister.

  Kebble’s telephone rang. He picked it up quickly but without fuss.

  “Kebble . . . yes, at once, please . . . yes.” There was a pause. Roger did not look up, but was intent on the younger officer. “I want to make an enquiry about a passenger flight . . . yes, it is an official enquiry . . . Flight 107, for Australia . . . yes. Will you tell me whether a Mr Perce Sheldon was among the passengers?”

  So far it was all calm, competent, done without fuss, and with the manner of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to do it. Next moment his voice changed so ludicrously that Roger actually jumped.