Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  His radio sounded, “Calling Superintendent West. Calling . . .”

  Roger stretched inside and picked up the receiver.

  “West speaking.”

  “Information here,” a man said. “Two messages for you, sir. Detective Sergeant Kebble is on his way back from the airport, and will be in your office whatever time you return.”

  “Yes.”

  “A Mr Lancelot Smith is coming to see you in about an hour’s time – he will have the list of passengers and officers of the SS Kookaburra with him. Should have said that was a message from the city chaps, sir.”

  “Good,” said Roger. “Thanks.”

  He put back the receiver, only a little less gloomy. They had lost the girl, and there could be no doubt of danger to her. He turned away from the telephone as a car drew up just behind him. He recognised a sergeant of the Flying Squad, but the puzzling thing was that the man was on his own.

  As he got out, obviously in a hurry, he recognised Roger.

  “Evening, sir. I think we might know where that girl is.”

  Roger’s heart began to thump.

  “Where?”

  “I was going along with another sergeant, and saw her and a man who fits the description put out earlier – the man of London Airport, sir. Short, small chap, pale, thin dark hair. Fair girl was with him. They were walking very close together. She didn’t look as if she was having fun, though.”

  “Where’s the other sergeant?”

  “Keeping track of them. They’re in Johnson Street.”

  “Take me there, will you?” Roger said. He saw the Divisional man’s eyes brighten, and suddenly remembered his Christian name. “Charley, spread the word round – and close in on Johnson Street.”

  “Right away!” Charley looked delighted.

  Roger got in with the Flying Squad man, who started off as if he would ram any car which got in his way. He swung round one corner, then another, driving with the effortless ease of the expert.

  “Describe the girl,” Roger ordered.

  “Fair, about five-four, good figure, rather full calves – very general I know, but so was the description.”

  “Could be the right one,” Roger agreed.

  He was aware of the number of coloured people staring, because the car was moving so fast. They took another corner, missing a cyclist by a foot or so. Roger bit his lip. The squad man slowed down perceptibly, and by the time they reached the next crossroads, they seemed to be crawling. A man appeared from the doorway of a house which was in utter darkness.

  Roger recognised a sergeant of the Flying Squad, who spoke before anyone had a chance to speak.

  “They’re in that house across the road.”

  “Sure?” demanded Roger.

  “Positive. Two local uniformed men are at the back, sir.”

  The house across the road had lights at two ground floor windows; everywhere else was in darkness except the front door, where a dim light shone through frosted glass panels.

  “I’m going over,” Roger said. “Don’t stand on any ceremony if there seems to be any trouble.”

  The sergeant who had brought him here said hastily, “Let me go, sir.”

  “Not this time.” Roger smiled, and turned in the near-darkness. Nothing would release him from his present tension except action.

  The other man was right, this wasn’t a job for a senior officer. But he felt a strange sense of personal involvement, an irresistible compulsion to go himself. It was as if he accepted the full responsibility for making sure that Doreen Morrison did not suffer the same fate as her sister.

  6

  Needle

  Doreen kept on thinking ‘No, no, no.’ She had come round halfway up the dark stairs of the house where she had slept that day. The man, Jessup, was half-carrying, half-dragging her up them. He was breathing very hard, making a whistling sound through his nostrils. His footsteps clumped and slithered on the boards of the stairs. A board creaked loudly. He stopped and let Doreen slide down so that she rested on her feet, leaning against him. Her breasts pushed against his thin chest, but she was oblivious of that, oblivious of the way her skirt had rucked up high above her knees.

  The refrain did not stop. ‘No, no, no.’

  Yet she was too dazed, too weak, to think or to struggle. She heard sounds and was aware of movement. Then a loud creak made her realise that the door of her room had opened.

  She gasped, “No!”

  She made a tremendous effort, and thrust herself backwards, away from him. On that instant she heard him swear, viciously, obscenely. Their bodies were no longer touching, but suddenly she felt his hands at her neck. With furious strength he gripped her. The breath seemed to be locked in her lungs, suddenly there was hard, frightening pressure round them. Hands still clutching, Jessup held her at arms’ length and pushed her backwards. Her legs almost doubled up. She would have fallen but for that terrible pressure on her neck. Her chest was heaving as she tried to draw in breath, but his hold was too tight, the pressure on her lungs seemed to crash her.

  He flung her away from him.

  The back of her legs caught against the edge of the divan bed. She toppled back, and fell heavily, but she could breathe. Air forced itself into her lungs, the pain of relief from pressure was almost as great as the pain from the pressure itself. She was past thinking, almost past caring, because the precious air was hers again, and the steel-like band across her chest had broken.

  Light went on, she was aware of it.

  Jessup moved, and she knew that too, but did not know where he went or what he did. The light was bright against her eyes, and all she wanted was to lie there, eyes shut tightly, the breath of life creeping into her.

  There were shadowy movements; Jessup’s.

  There were tiny, metallic sounds, as well as the sound of his laboured breathing.

  Doreen did not know that he was preparing a hypodermic syringe, filling it from the ampoule which quivered in his right hand. Breathlessness, fear, perhaps even a kind of hatred for himself made his whole body quiver. There was a sucking sound as the deadly liquid filled the glass body of the syringe.

  Her eyes flickered open.

  In a moment of terrible clarity she realised what he was about to do. Her skirt was rucked up to her waist, inches of her thigh were bare. He held the hypodermic syringe in his right hand. She gave a convulsive leap but he anticipated it. He thrust his left hand down with crushing weight on to her breast, forcing her against the bed, and raised his right leg and bent it and knelt on her legs right on the knee caps. She was now so petrified that all she could hear was the thumping of her heart. She saw Jessup’s face contorted as if in rage, saw his lips move as if in speech. She made a desperate but hopeless effort to shift to one side, but could not.

  The hall of the house was empty when Roger stepped into it. Faint sounds of music came from a room on the right, the door of which was open. The other door, on the left, was closed, but light shone beneath it and at one side.

  He heard footsteps on bare boards, and stood for a few seconds, straining his ears. Undoubtedly they were on the stairs, some way up. The music seemed to grow louder, and to drown them. He started to climb, peering upwards all the time. The only light came from a tiny bulb at a landing almost straight above his head. Beyond it there were vague, moving shadows. He went up quickly, keeping to one side, for stairs did not squeak so loudly close to the wall. He was halfway up when he heard a loud creak above him – a long way above. That was followed by more footsteps, a rumble of sound as if someone was staggering.

  He thought he heard a gasp, perhaps a stifled scream.

  He raced up the stairs, as a door slammed. The light was on this landing, and he saw nothing beyond but darkness. He sped up the next flight of stairs to a second landing, and as he reached
it light framed a door above his head.

  The light had just been switched on.

  He went towards it with controlled speed, making hardly a sound. The music had faded, all he could hear were movements beyond the door now framed with light. He could rush at it, or approach with stealth. Was the girl in acute danger at this moment? He told himself that he could not even be positive that Doreen Morrison was there. If Kebble or any junior acted on impulse, as he was doing, he would slap them down hard when he heard of it.

  He reached the landing and the door.

  He had to be sure Doreen was inside. He might hear a word or two of vital importance if he listened, too. He pressed his ear close to the door, every nerve strained to catch any sound.

  He thought someone was gasping for breath. There was another noise, a muffled voice, a creaking of springs. He could thrust open this door and disturb two people in the privacy of their deep passions; drunk or sober they had every right . . .

  He had to take the chance, so he turned the handle, and pushed; the door opened a few inches, without creaking. In the bright light of a single lamp he saw a man kneeling on a girl, whose legs alone showed, whose head and body were hidden. The man’s right arm was held high and the light glinted on a hypodermic syringe and its needle.

  “I didn’t want to kill you,” the man was saying in a gasping way.

  Roger said in a taut voice, “You’re not going to.”

  He thrust the door wide open as the man spun round. For a moment the girl’s head and shoulders appeared. She looked as pale as death and her eyes were closed. Her skirt was rucked up about her waist, her right stocking was a mass of ladders.

  The man did not speak, just stood there with the syringe still in his right hand. He was almost as pale as the girl, and his pallor made his eyes look black as beads. He was short, weak-looking, and his hair grew far back from his forehead.

  Roger went a step nearer, his mouth very dry.

  “Drop that syringe,” he ordered. “I am a detective officer, and—”

  “Get away,” the little man said in a choky voice.

  “Drop it, and don’t waste time.” Roger took a step nearer, but was very wary. This man was desperate; that showed in his eyes and in the tension of his body. “Do as you’re told.”

  He began to move forward again.

  The little man took a step towards him, the syringe held forward in his right hand, like a dagger. His thumb was on the plunger. If he got too close he could jab that needle in.

  How much was a fatal dose?

  “Drop it!” Roger barked.

  The man leapt at him, needle thrusting at his face. As it came it seemed to become enormous, looming as deadly as a rapier. In that split second Roger felt wild panic. If he swept the arm aside the needle might jab into his arm or his hand.

  It was like a blinding light.

  He dropped to his knees. The man’s sleeve brushed the top of his head but there was no sharp pain. He brought his head up with all the force he could, into the man’s groin, and heard the agonised, hissing intake of breath as the man staggered back. The syringe dropped close to Roger’s knees. He got up, hardly breathing, staring at the man, who had banged into a chair and was now doubled up in anguish. Roger raised his right foot. The impulse to stamp on the syringe was almost overwhelming. He brought his foot down, but at the last second snatched it away. A little liquid had oozed out of the needle and made a tiny blob on the shiny linoleum.

  The other man straightened up, made a futile effort to attack again, and was caught with a spasm of pain. Roger forced himself to act, stepped past him, caught his right wrist, and thrust his arm up behind him in a hammer-lock. He didn’t say a word as he stared at the girl.

  She still lay on her back, staring at him, as if she was petrified.

  “It’s all right,” Roger said gently. “You needn’t worry any more.”

  Her lips were parted, her eyes wide open, velvety eyes but vacant now.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Roger assured her. “I’ll be back in—”

  He broke off, tensing up for a moment. There was a sound at the door, and no way of being sure that the man hadn’t an accomplice. Then the big form of the Flying Squad man blocked the doorway.

  “You okay, sir?” He was anxious.

  “Yes.” Roger could hardly hear his own voice, it was so hoarse. “Take this chap, charge him with attempting to cause grievous bodily harm, and have him sent to the Yard at once.”

  “Right!” The Flying Squad man seemed glad of the chance. Then he caught sight of the girl, and gaped.

  “Tell Charley to send a doctor here,” Roger said. “Shock case, mostly.” As the other moved forward, his voice sharpened. “Mind that needle!” The man’s big foot was only inches away from the syringe. He evaded it, and took a grip on the little man’s arm.

  Roger was staring at the girl, and the Flying Squad man hadn’t got a good grip. The prisoner wrenched himself free and hurtled towards the door. The sergeant shot out a foot, and the man ran into it and pitched forward. The sergeant moved very quickly for a big man, bent down, and yanked him to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

  “I’ll watch him, sir.”

  Roger nodded. He turned back to the girl, but she hadn’t moved, and was staring in that vacant way just as she had before. Her skirt was still rucked up. She had full, firm thighs, and he noticed her rather big but well-shaped calves. She wore a frilly white blouse which looked grubby.

  Roger drew closer. There was no blemish on the girl’s legs or on her cheeks, just the pallor of someone who had been ill, and kept indoors for a long time. He pulled up a chair and sat close to her, taking her hand and feeling for her pulse.

  “You’ve nothing else to worry about,” he assured her gently. “You’re quite safe now. I’m Superintendent West. You talked to me on the telephone. Do you remember?”

  She didn’t speak; he could not even be sure that she heard him. Her pulse was slow, her forehead cold.

  “You have nothing else to worry about,” he assured her again.

  He was almost glad that she did not appear to understand, for it was not true. When she recovered, and the effect of this shock had gone, she would be faced with the news of the death of her sister.

  “Do you know the name of the man who was with you?” he asked.

  It was a formality. He had at least to try to make her answer questions, but there was no hope of an answer.

  “You can be absolutely sure you have nothing more to worry about,” he repeated with great deliberation. If he could make her understand that it might give her sufficient strength to draw on later.

  Two things happened in the next moment, when he was preoccupied only with thought of helping Doreen Morrison. Her eyes widened, as if in sudden fear, and as he thought it was due to sharp recollection of what had happened, he heard a squeak behind him, as of a footstep on the shiny linoleum.

  He felt an almost irresistible impulse to jump round, but stayed close to the girl. Her lips began to quiver and there was no doubt of her fear. Another squeak sounded – closer. A gasping sound came from the girl, terror was in her eyes.

  Without getting up, Roger swung round, sending the chair flying.

  A man was only two or three feet away from him, reaching forward, a knife in his hand held as if to plunge into Roger’s back – or into the girl’s breast. Roger kept going, arms outstretched, clutching at the man’s legs. In that split second he had no time to think; his actions were based on reflexes, not on thought. He saw the man’s right foot move, realised what was coming; that the man was going to kick him. He made another desperate effort to clutch the other’s foot, then saw the shiny toe of the shoe swinging towards him; it seemed like the foot of a giant. He rolled to one side. The foot scraped along his temple, rasping and painfu
l but with little force.

  The girl screamed – a piercing sound of horror.

  God!

  Roger squirmed round, on the floor. The man was standing over the girl, his right arm raised. Roger could not see the knife but knew it was in that poised right hand ready to sweep down into the girl’s body. The foot of the divan was close to Roger, but the man was out of reach. Roger placed both hands on the side of the divan and thrust with all his strength. The divan shifted with startling speed, casters sliding over the smooth floor. The man by it struck his murderous blow, but the knife plunged into the divan, inches from the girl.

  The door banged open.

  A man called, “Are you all right?”

  The man by the bed snatched at the knife, touched but failed to grasp it, then rushed at a police constable who was already halfway across the room. The constable looked small and frail, the would-be murderer big and powerful. He did exactly as he had with Roger: kicked out brutally. His foot caught the policeman in the groin, and as the uniformed man went staggering back, the attacker rushed out of the room. There was a shout, a bang, a thud.

  Roger picked himself up, heavily. The policeman banged against a chair, and doubled up. The girl lay absolutely still, staring at the door.

  It opened, and a plain-clothes man appeared.

  “Did you get him?” asked Roger.

  “The man who ran out of here – no, sir. He ducked into another room and out of a window. Are you all right?”

  Roger said slowly, “Yes. Go downstairs and have a general call put out for the man. Height about six feet, swarthy-skinned, broad nose, wearing dark clothes, a dark scarf, and a cloth cap. Say where he was last seen. Got all that?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man hurried out.

  Roger went over to the policeman, who was bending down with his knees tightly pressed together. He straightened up, looking very pale.

  “Want any help?” Roger asked.

  “Often had worse while kicking a football about,” the man said ruefully.