Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  “What?”

  Kebble looked as if he was being told that the plane had crashed, he was so appalled.

  “Are you sure?”

  There was another pause, before he said in a more normal voice, “Dead for how long?”

  Roger sprang up from his chair.

  “I see,” Kebble said. “Put me on to the Airport Police Office, please. I’ll hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece with his free hand. “Sheldon died at the airport.”

  He still sounded shocked.

  “How?”

  “The operator says he just dropped dead.”

  Roger could not stop himself from exclaiming, “Dropped dead?”

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  “Must be a coincidence,” went on Kebble.

  “Could be,” Roger conceded, doubtfully. “When the police come on, ask for Inspector Sandys.”

  “Will you talk to him?”

  “Just get the details and tell him you and I are on the way to see him. Oh – find out if the body’s been moved. If it hasn’t, ask him to keep it there.”

  “That’ll cause a stink at—” Kebble began, then raised the mouthpiece. “Hallo? . . . I’m Detective Sergeant Kebble speaking for Superintendent West of Scotland Yard . . . is Inspector Sandys there, please? . . . please.”

  Roger was looking through the contents of his bag, which was always ready for an emergency. Everything was there – if he used any of the contents on one job he always made a reminder note to make sure he didn’t go off without it. He tucked the magnifying glass into its place, closed the box, and turned round.

  Kebble was saying, “. . . should be there in forty minutes.” He rang off. “The body’s at the airport hospital.”

  “Should have expected that,” Roger said. “What did Sandys have to say? All het up at the suggestion of foul play, I suppose.”

  “He—er—did give me that impression,” Kebble admitted. He stood up as Roger rounded the desk.

  “We’ll take my car,” Roger said. “Go and bring it round to the foot of the steps. I’m going to put some steam into Photography.”

  He was out of the room ahead of Kebble, and hurried to the lift with that brisk, thrusting manner which characterised him; a kind of disciplined haste which had become second nature; ‘perpetual motion,’ Kebble had said, and the recollection amused him. There wasn’t much to be amused at in this case, and it seemed as if his premonition of trouble had been justified. He wondered whether the years of experience did give a Yard man a kind of prescience.

  The lift was at this floor. Roger went up two, then hurried along to Photography. This was not the most spacious department at the Yard, but it remained one of the most vital.

  Superintendent George Cole, a pale-faced, flabby man with a big double chin, was at a big drawing-desk, where a dozen wet prints were pinned out. He turned his head as Roger entered.

  “Gaw,” he complained. “I might’ve known it. Eight thirty I said and I meant har-past eight.”

  “George,” said Roger, “it’s urgent.”

  “Never had a job of yours that wasn’t, in your opinion.”

  “Nice-looking girl, George, wasn’t she?”

  “That won’t cut any ice. London’s full of nice-looking girls and half of them come from Australia, if you can judge from Australia House.”

  “She came over on the SS Kookaburra.”

  “Nice little birdie,” said George; that was his brand of humour.

  “One of the other passengers on the Kookaburra dropped dead at London Airport half an hour or so ago,” Roger declared.

  Cole actually gasped, moistened his lips, and ejaculated, “Gaw. Which one?”

  “The man on the right of that snapshot. How soon can we get all of those enlargements round to the Divisions?”

  “Smell ‘em out, don’t you?” Cole said. “Perishing marvel, you are. I’ll see it’s out by har-past seven.”

  “George, you’re a far better man than they say you are.” Roger slapped the plump back, threw “Thanks,” over his shoulder and hurried out.

  Kebble was downstairs, by Roger’s black Rover.

  “You drive,” Roger said.

  Rush hour was over, so the Embankment wasn’t busy. Kebble knew his London. He weaved and swerved until he reached the flyover beyond Knightsbridge, then put on speed. No one had cause to complain. They reached the main airport gates in thirty-one minutes and were pulling up outside the Airport Police Office in thirty-five. As Roger got out, a man at a window on the first floor looked out, and waved.

  “I’ll come down,” he called.

  Half a minute later, Roger was saying, “Sergeant Kebble, Chief Inspector Sandys. Sandy, I’ll bet you haven’t checked a thing.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” retorted Sandys, with gloomy satisfaction. He was a comparatively short man with a brick-red face, gingery hair going grey, brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a mass of freckles on face and hands. “I’ve checked what time he arrived, where he went, who he talked to, what he ate – but it’s all a flicking waste of time. Poor basket had a heart attack.”

  “Who said so?”

  “I say so.”

  “Doctor confirmed it?”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Sandys insisted.

  “It will save us a lot of trouble if you’re right,” Roger said. “Where’s the doctor now?”

  “He’s still with the corpse,” Sandys answered. “Wonder is you didn’t bring your tame pathologist along with you as you’re in such an almighty hurry.”

  “Now would I do that until we had a medical opinion?” asked Roger. They were walking towards the main airport building, past the Customs bays, up the escalator. “Did Sheldon speak to many people?”

  “News stand, snack-bar waitress, and one official. He’d got his main baggage on board.”

  “Did he have anyone to see him off?”

  “Not at the airport or the terminal.”

  “How did he get here?”

  “Airways bus.” Sandys took even greater satisfaction in having the answers off pat.

  “Do you know if he spoke to any of the other passengers?”

  “Couldn’t ask ‘em,” said Sandys. “The plane took off on time without him. Could talk to the pilot by radio if you think it’s that important.”

  “I think it might be,” Roger said. “Half an hour won’t make any difference, though.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re slowing down!”

  The prospect seemed to delight Sandys as he led the way up a flight of stairs and pointed to a spot which had been roped off – an area perhaps fifteen feet by twenty.

  “That’s where he fell,” Sandys declared with even great satisfaction.

  “You must have had second sight,” Roger said.

  “Just my natural thoroughness,” Sandys boasted. For the first time since they had met it seemed to Kebble that he wasn’t trying to take a rise out of the Superintendent. “Never do like these sudden deaths, Handsome. Ten per cent chance there’s something queer, I always say.”

  They reached the section which had been roped off with white cords supported by knee-high stands, used for keeping gangways separated; there was nothing sensational about it, nothing to attract attention. Only a young couple, looking diffident, were staring at it.

  Sandys began to explain what had happened. The young couple seemed to take a deep interest. Kebble was tempted to move them on, but Roger West seemed oblivious.

  “. . . he just toppled over,” Sandys said. “Down he went, out like a light.”

  The diffident young man, who had a receding chin and a weak mouth, a chicken to Kebble’s turkey, said, “Excuse me.”

  Sandys st
ared at him, his expression enough to frighten off even a youth who was not timid.

  “This is official business.”

  “I—er—yes, I can see that, but—”

  “Cyril, it’s not worth wasting any more time,” the girl interrupted. She was shorter than her skinny and meek-looking companion, stocky, dark-haired, with a fringe which made her round face slightly like that of a Japanese doll. “Come on.”

  “No, Sal, I can’t.”

  “Cyril, please.”

  “If you can help us at all we’ll be most grateful,” Roger said. “Did you see the incident?”

  “Incident!” snorted the girl. “We saw the man die.”

  “You’re quite right, it was much more than an incident.”

  Roger looked at her gravely. “Did you see what happened before Mr Sheldon died?”

  The girl didn’t answer.

  “Yes,” declared the weak-looking Cyril. “We did. And he didn’t suddenly fall – he staggered at least twenty feet before he fell. He banged into my fiancée, that’s why we took such notice of it. But the thing is—”

  Sandys looked as if he could wish the young man a thousand miles away. Kebble was fascinated by the difference between his manner and that of West.

  “Cyril, it might have been nothing. Please don’t start a lot of rumours.”

  “Is this something you saw or something you heard?” Roger asked the youth.

  “Something we saw.”

  “Both of you?”

  “I’m not really sure,” the girl said.

  “Sal, you know as well as I do that you saw what happened. You are the police, aren’t you?” he asked Roger.

  “Yes.” Roger slipped a card out of his breast pocket and showed it. “This is Inspector Sandys of the airport police, and my assistant, Detective Sergeant Kebble. May I have your names?”

  “I’m Cyril Gee,” the meek-looking young man introduced himself. “My fiancée’s Sarah Welling.”

  “You both have my assurance that anything you say you saw will be treated in confidence,” Roger said. “What was it, Mr Gee?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was at the snack bar,” answered Gee, quite positively. “The—er—the man who died had some fruit salad and ice-cream, and a cup of coffee. He was reading the newspaper, and suddenly saw something which interested him. A man who had been standing nearby came up and jabbed something into him. I’m positive. He stood very close to the man who died, and banged against him. His hand was in his pocket but I saw a pin or a needle or something stick out of the pocket. The man who was eating ice-cream jumped and rubbed his ‘rump,’ but the other chap went off.”

  Sandys exclaimed, “Good God.”

  Kebble felt a rush of excitement.

  Roger looked straight at Sarah Welling, and asked, “Did you also see that action, Miss Welling?”

  “Yes,” she said miserably. “It happened all right. The awful thing . . .”

  She broke off.

  “The awful thing,” said meek-mannered Cyril Gee, “is that we didn’t say anything about it to the fat man. We couldn’t make up our minds what to do, it was such a surprising thing to happen. The man who used the needle or pin was gone so quickly. He was rather short and was soon lost in the crowd. And the dead man – Sheldon, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he gobbled down the rest of the ice-cream and dashed off,” went on Gee. “Sal and I talked about it for a few minutes. We didn’t know what to do.”

  “The truth is, we dithered,” the girl put in bitterly.

  “Who wouldn’t?” asked Roger, with brisk reassurance. “Would you recognise this little man again?”

  “Oh yes,” asserted Gee.

  “Yes,” answered Sarah Welling as firmly.

  “Sandy,” Roger said to the airport man, “if there was a jab there’ll be a puncture – which side, Mr Gee?”

  “Right,” answered Gee.

  “Thanks. See the doctor, Sandy, will you?”

  “Right away.” Sandys hurried off.

  “Mr Gee, your information might be invaluable,” Roger said. “We’ve no positive reason to think that Mr Sheldon died from anything but natural causes, but in a case like this anything which seems inexplicable has to be examined closely. Will you fill in any details you can, and Detective Sergeant Kebble here will make notes. Are you in any great hurry?”

  “We only came for a meal and to watch the aircraft take off,” Gee said. “We’re not in any hurry at all, are we, Sal?”

  “I suppose not,” the girl agreed resignedly.

  “Find a quiet corner, have a drink on Scotland Yard, and tell Sergeant Kebble all you can,” Roger said. “I’ll see you again before you go.”

  He nodded, and went off. Not far away in the now busy lounge were some telephone booths. He went into the nearest empty one, and dialled Whitehall 1212.

  “Scotland Yard. Can I help you?”

  “Give me the Information Room,” Roger said.

  His voice seemed to put life into the operator.

  “At once, sir!” That proved longer than Roger liked and he turned round. Watching Kebble and the young couple he saw a short man who seemed very interested in them, and wondered if by any chance Sheldon had been in this very box.

  “Mr West?” Information came at last.

  “Get in touch with the City Police, and tell them we need the full passenger list with British addresses, of a ship called the SS Kookaburra which reached Southampton from Australia about four weeks ago,” Roger said. “Better have the officers, too. We need the information tonight. It’s the Blue Flag Line, and the office is in Throgmorton Street. The manager’s name is Smith.”

  “I’ve got all that,” the Information man said. “Where shall I call you?”

  “I’ll be in soon,” Roger said. “Don’t let anyone stall you. Two passengers from that ship are dead, one certainly and one possibly of violence. I’d hate anything to happen to the others.”

  As he put down the receiver he suffered a moment of acute anxiety, almost alarm: for how did he know other passengers weren’t dead already?

  “Nonsense!” he said aloud, and pushed his way out of the telephone booth, angry with himself but with the shadows as of premonition hovering over him, and the face of the dead girl’s sister clear in his mind’s eye.

  Doreen Morrison was still asleep, but she was breathing more loudly. Now and again she stirred; a movement shifted sheet and blanket and revealed one pale shoulder in the north light of the shabby room.

  After a while, her eyes flickered, and opened, and stayed open as she stared blankly at the dingy ceiling.

  4

  Pathologist’s Report

  No shadows were dispersed when Roger stepped into the small room at the airport hospital – really an elaborate first-aid post – where Perce Sheldon’s body lay. The body was on a high bed, covered from head to foot with a white sheet, big, bulky, a carcass of hopes and plans, and perhaps deep grief for someone who was half the world away.

  On one side of the bed stood Sandys; on the other, a youthful, dark-haired man whose hair grew far back from a pale, shiny forehead. He had big eyes and a button nose, and had something of the look of a golliwog. Roger had met him two or three times, and knew him well enough to respect him both as a doctor and as a man of intelligence.

  Sandys glanced round.

  “About time,” he said gruffly.

  “Hallo, Dr Mason,” Roger said.

  “Good evening, Mr West.” Mason, on the nearer side to Roger, moved a step and shook hands. “I’ve just made myself very unpopular with Inspector Sandys.”

  Roger’s smile was set.

  “Not natural causes?”

  “Possibly not natural causes. The indica
tions were an acute seizure, probably a coronary. Nothing a superficial examination can reveal suggests it. There is a small puncture in the right buttock but it is not conclusively a hypodermic needle puncture.”

  “Are you able to suggest what caused death?”

  “Not until after the autopsy. Do you want me to arrange that?”

  Roger said quietly, “Do you want to do it?”

  “Not one little bit.”

  “Then I’ll get Whales to do it,” Roger said. Dr Frederick Whales was the pathologist who had carried out the post mortem on Denise Morrison. “All right with you, Sandy?”

  “I’ll have to get approval,” Sandys said. “But it’ll be okay. When do you want him?”

  “As early as possible.”

  “If I’m fixing that I can’t give anything else priority.”

  “What I’d like you to do as soon as practicable is find which officials were in the waiting room at the same time as Sheldon. I’ll have to use the newspapers for the general public.”

  Roger’s thoughts were running ahead of him. There was so much to do, and telling himself that everything got done eventually did not stop him from fretting because he could not do a dozen things at once. The country editions of the morning newspapers were already being printed but there was time to catch later editions. A request for more eyewitnesses who had seen Sheldon stagger and fall might do more harm than good. If these two deaths had been by the same hand, then the killer would be warned that the police were close on his heels.

  “Better wait until I’m sure,” Roger said to himself.

  He went across to a quiet corner where young Cyril Gee, Sarah Welling, and Kebble were standing and talking. There were two glasses on a nearby table.

  “How’s it going?” asked Roger.

  “I’ve a comprehensive statement signed by both Miss Welling and Mr Gee,” Kebble said. “They’ve given me their business as well as their home addresses. I think they have done all they possibly can tonight.”

  Roger said, “Then we needn’t keep you a moment longer.” He shook hands. “Very many thanks – and we won’t worry you again unless we have to.”