Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  Roger went back to the girl. She had not moved, and did not appear to see him. He studied the knife. The handle was covered with cloth, like a bandaged finger, and there would be no prints on it. He pulled it out. The blade was razor sharp and had a needle point.

  He could not repress a shudder.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and soon a snowy-haired young man appeared, carrying a bag. A squad sergeant was just behind him. The first man was a Divisional police surgeon. He came forward with a diffidence which reminded Roger of weak-chinned Cyril Gee, of London Airport.

  “Your patient,” Roger said, standing up.

  The girl gave no sign that she had heard.

  Roger went across and began to pick up the syringe, handling it with great care. Soon the Divisional men were here in strength, photographers, fingerprint men, every expert who might help. It would have been superfluous to give instructions; these men knew exactly what was wanted. Roger waited until Doreen Morrison was taken out on a stretcher, and had a word with a Divisional Detective Inspector who came to take charge.

  “I’ll take the knife over to the Yard,” Roger said.

  “Let me check it first, will you?” the Divisional man asked. “I’ll send it over.”

  “Suit yourself,” Roger agreed.

  Two uniformed policemen including the victim of the attack were at the front of the house, where a crowd had gathered, mostly Jamaicans; there were a surprising number of children, whose big, dark eyes reminded Roger of Doreen. Someone had brought his own car up, and one of the policemen pushed his way towards it and opened the door for Roger.

  “Thanks.” He nodded and drove off. Soon he was out of the narrow streets and in the wide thoroughfares. He turned towards the West End. It was nearly half past nine, he was going to be home very late. He stifled a yawn; bursts of action and bursts of tension took more out of him these days than they had a few years ago. He wasn’t so quick, either, he thought sourly, or he would not have let the second attacker get away. Angry with himself, and suffering from reaction, he pulled off the main road near Marble Arch, lit a cigarette, and switched on the car radio. There was a Brahms Concerto, he didn’t know its name. He made himself relax for ten minutes, half listening, thinking over all that had happened. Then he jerked himself out of the reverie, and drove to the Yard. The courtyard was almost empty but as he pulled in two squad cars raced out with their usual fierce urgency.

  No one spoke to him on the way to his office. He saw light at the sides, and heard voices. Kebble and who? The shipping agency manager, Smith, of course. He whistled a tune to announce his arrival. When he opened the door, Kebble was heading for it.

  “Hallo, sir.”

  “Hallo, Sergeant.”

  “I’ve just been talking to Division about what happened.”

  “Been quite a night, hasn’t it?” Roger said.

  A man was rising from the armchair. Sitting, he seemed quite normal, but on his feet he was very short – almost a dwarf. He had rather big, coarse features, heavy-lidded eyes, big hands.

  “This is Mr Lancelot Smith, sir.”

  “I am pleased to meet you.” Smith had a deep, rasping voice. “And very distressed indeed to hear about the death of two people who were passengers on the SS Kookaburra. I have with me the list of passengers.” His accent was very slightly foreign and his enunciation too precise. He handed Roger a printed list, and then added, “Also a list of the ship’s officers.”

  He handed this over, and Roger saw a passport-size photograph against each name. “Also of the crew, if that is of assistance.”

  Roger took the lists, glancing almost casually at the photographs until he saw one which made him forget everything else.

  The man he had stopped from killing Doreen Morrison was here, Third Officer Thomas Jessup of the SS Kookaburra.

  7

  Death Afar Off

  Lancelot Smith obviously realised that there was trouble. Kebble, in the background, moved forward to look at the photographs. Roger put his forefinger on Jessup, and asked, “How well do you know the crew?”

  “In person, hardly at all except the Captain, Chief Officer and Chief Engineer. Otherwise I know their history and record. This was the Third Officer. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, slightly. You said ‘was.’”

  “He left the ship in London.”

  “Wasn’t he signed on for a round trip?”

  “He was unsatisfactory,” Smith declared.

  “In what way?”

  “Superintendent, such matters are confidential.”

  “We are investigating a murder.”

  Smith moistened his thick lips.

  “I wish to assist in every way I can, of course. This would be in confidence, would it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were thefts on board the ship, mostly from the crew and officers, some from the passengers. Jessup was asked to leave the ship.”

  “Did you accuse him of theft?”

  “There is no doubt he knew why he was not wanted.”

  “What would you expect him to do?”

  Smith shrugged. “Get another ship, no doubt.”

  “So that he could repeat his thefts there?”

  Smith said slowly, “Nothing was proved, Superintendent. You cannot ruin a man because of suspicion.”

  “Who else knew of these suspicions?”

  “The Captain, Chief Officer, and Chief Engineer knew officially.” Smith raised a big, ungainly hand. “Why are you so interested in this man?”

  “He is under a charge of attempting to cause bodily harm to another of the Kookaburra’s passengers,” Roger answered flatly.

  “Another?” Smith sounded shocked.

  “And he will probably be charged with committing one of the murders,” Roger went on. “I want all available information about him as early as possible, Mr Smith. Everything.”

  “I shall cable for further details tonight,” Smith promised. He looked scared now, and very ugly; almost cretinous.

  “Did he have access to poisons?” Roger asked.

  “Poisons?”

  It would be easy to lose one’s temper with this man.

  “Presumably the Kookaburra carried medical supplies.”

  Smith took out a handkerchief and dabbed the back of his thick neck.

  “That is so,” he admitted. “Had Jessup . . .”

  He moistened his lips.

  “Yes?”

  “Jessup was our first-aid officer, in charge of supplies of the Sick Bay. You think he stole poisons . . .” Smith’s voice trailed off.

  “It’s certainly possible,” said Roger. “Do you know if any digitalis was carried on board?”

  “I—I cannot be sure. I will find out from Sydney, as quickly as I can.”

  “Where is the Kookaburra now?”

  “She is four days out of Hong Kong, heading for Sydney.”

  “How long will the voyage take?”

  “Usually it would take twelve days.”

  “Are the rest of the officers the same as on the outward voyage?”

  “Yes, Superintendent.”

  “What about the crew?”

  “It is mostly a Chinese crew, and there were few changes. These I can check for you in the morning.” Smith backed to his chair and sat down, dabbing at his forehead.

  “Do you know if a man answering this description was among the crew?” Roger repeated the description he had already broadcast to the Divisions. It was vague; his own impression of the man with the cap pulled low over his eyes and the scarf up over his chin was vague.

  “It might answer a number of people,” Smith said reasonably. “But no one I knew on board the Kookaburra was like that. No one. You—you said that Jess
up attacked another passenger?”

  “He attacked Doreen Morrison,” Roger told him. “Have you the European or United Kingdom addresses of the other passengers on the outward journey?”

  “Yes,” Smith said. He pointed to the passenger list in Roger’s hand. “They are all there. But—but you have caught Jessup, you say.” For the first time the shipping man seemed to brighten. “He can do no more harm, then? There is no danger for the other passengers.”

  “We don’t know yet,” Roger said. “There’s far too much we don’t know. Is there any reason why Jessup should want to kill the two Morrison girls, or Mr Sheldon?”

  “I know of none.”

  “Did they ever accuse him of theft?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Are you sure you don’t?”

  “Yes, Superintendent.” Smith acquired an unexpected dignity as he squared his shoulders. “I am quite sure. However, some of the passengers accused him, that is certain. I do not know who they were. It was a matter for the ship’s Master, you understand.”

  “Surely he would log any such charge?”

  “I did not see his log,” Smith said. “Superintendent, I will afford you all the help in my power but I cannot give you information which is not at my disposal.”

  After a pause, Roger forced a smile.

  “No, of course not.” He wondered whether he was too much on edge, perhaps suffering from shock reaction, or whether Lancelot Smith’s appearance was sufficiently grotesque for him to take a dislike to the man, and so be prejudiced. “You’ve been very good. I would like the address, telephone number, and cable address of your Sydney office, then we needn’t worry you again until the morning.”

  Smith’s eyes positively glistened.

  “All the information is on the lists, the Sydney and London postal and cable addresses, all are there. Superintendent, anything I can do is as good as done.”

  “Thank you,” Roger said. “Mr Smith.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know of any reason why anyone should want to kill passengers of your ship?”

  “It is a complete mystery to me,” Smith declared earnestly. “A complete mystery. Unless perhaps Jessup is not a sane man. A psychopath might be so deeply insulted that he would kill anyone who—” Smith stopped, as if he knew that Roger wasn’t impressed, as if he himself was not really impressed by his own arguments.

  In a whispering voice he insisted, “It is possible. There are such men.”

  “Perhaps there are,” Roger said. “Sergeant, show Mr Smith the main door, will you?”

  Smith did not offer to shake hands, but went out as if he could not get away from Roger quickly enough. The two sets of footsteps sounded along the passage, but soon faded. Roger turned to his desk, rounded it, and sat down. There was something in Smith’s manner he didn’t like at all. By now he should have thrown off any reaction, should be elated. The girl was alive, and shock symptoms would not last long. One murderer was caught, the other would be picked up soon.

  How could he say that with certainty?

  All the years of experience warned him against taking anything for granted, but surely Jessup was the murderer of Denise Morrison and Sheldon. He had the description from Cyril Gee which tallied, the man himself, the hypodermic syringe in his pocket. He had actually seen Jessup in the act of plunging the needle in. What doubt could there be? He took the syringe out of his pocket and put it on the blotting pad in front of him. Needle and glass glistened. He heard Kebble’s footsteps, and Kebble opened the door and stalked in.

  “Take this thing up to the lab, and have the contents analysed,” Roger said. “Tell ‘em it might be digitalis.”

  “Right.” Kebble leaned across and picked up the blotting pad.

  “Where does Cyril Gee live?”

  “Victoria – just behind the Army and Navy Stores,” Kebble answered.

  “Know his phone number?”

  “Victoria 81345.”

  Roger grinned. “Thanks.” He picked up the telephone and gave the number before Kebble reached the door.

  “Keb.”

  Keb turned, balancing the blotting pad.

  “What did you make of Smith?”

  “I thought he had a load on his mind,” Kebble said grimly. “I had a feeling he knew there was trouble brewing.”

  Roger nodded, Kebble went out; the telephone bell rang. It was so often, too often, like this; no time really to think, to get a balanced view, to test one’s own reactions for mistakes and the facts for fallacies.

  “Your Victoria number, sir,” the operator said.

  “Thanks . . . Mr Gee?” Roger put his reflections aside and made his voice sound affable.

  Gee did not.

  “I thought you weren’t going to bother us—” there was a fractional pause, before he corrected, “bother me again.”

  “Only in emergency,” Roger said. “I’m really sorry. Can you come over to the Yard?”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, please,” Roger said. “I’ll gladly send a car for you.”

  “Oh, all right,” Gee said, with ill grace. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  There was a whisper of sound in the background, then Gee hung up across his own rather miserable, “I can’t refuse.”

  Roger was smiling faintly. All his awareness of the way people lived did not save him from a prudish reaction of surprise if there were indications of pre-marital getting together. Did they share a flat? What the hell was it to do with him? He rang off, telephoned the sergeants’ room, sent a man to pick up Gee, and then sat back. The Yard was very quiet. He was feeling easier in his mind, the sense of brooding danger was almost gone. If only word would come of the capture of the man who had attacked him and the girl at Notting Hill Gate, he would be himself again.

  A man called, “Have you an appointment, sir?”

  Hurried footsteps followed, drawing nearer. Roger heard two men approaching, and pushed his chair back. Lancelot Smith appeared, mouth open and breathing very hard; a messenger was behind him, looking questioningly at Roger.

  “It’s all right,” Roger told him. “Yes, Mr Smith?”

  Smith came right in.

  “There’s something—I ought to—have told you.” He gasped for breath after every two or three words, partly from nerves, partly because he had hurried. “I couldn’t—bring myself—to.”

  The man behind him closed the door.

  “Very good of you to come back,” Roger said, rounding his desk. “Sit down and take your time.” He held the man’s arm as he sat down. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No thank—thank you. I don’t—drink alcohol.” Smith sat on the edge of his chair, that near-cretinous face twisted in distress. “One of the—one of the other ship’s officers died in—in mysterious circumstances in Hong Kong. Four days ago. It was—sudden death, like these people here, but—but—but—”

  He could not utter the words.

  “Jessup couldn’t have killed him, could he?” Roger helped out. All his own fears and anxieties flooded back, but he forced himself to speak dispassionately, “Let me have the full details, please.”

  He was writing – ‘First Engineer, Neil Sanderson, native of Townsville, Queensland, aged 24’ – when Kebble came in. Kebble showed how startled he was only for a moment, then behaved as if he had expected to find Smith here.

  “What time is it in Hong Kong?” Roger asked Kebble, when Smith had gone.

  “About five or six hours ahead of us, aren’t they?” Kebble said.

  “Find out, then see if you can get a senior officer on the telephone. If you can’t, cable for details of this engineer’s death.” Roger was very brisk.

  “Right.”

  “I’ll go and see Cyril Gee,” R
oger said.

  He went out, as Kebble picked up the telephone. It was ten o’clock, and he felt as if the night would never end. He plonked his feet down heavily, trying not to hurry too much. Gee was in a waiting room one floor below. He was standing up, giving an impression of angry impatience. He looked tired, and he looked as weak-willed as a man could.

  “I hope this is necessary,” he said, more peevish than tart.

  “If it weren’t I wouldn’t have asked you to come,” Roger said. “I’ve arranged for an identification parade across at Cannon Row police station – half a minute away. I hope you will see someone whom you recognise.”

  “You’ve got him?” Gee’s voice rose on that instant.

  “I’ve a suspect,” Roger said. “Don’t speak until we’re out of earshot, will you?”

  He felt as nearly sure as he could that Gee would pick out Jessup as the man who had jabbed a needle into Sheldon at the airport, but as they entered the room where two policemen and five men in ordinary clothes were waiting, he felt a wave of doubt. The five men were all much the same in appearance, on the small side, and each wore dark clothes and a dark trilby hat. The lighting was simulated daylight, as good as one could get for identification at night.

  They passed along the line, where Jessup was in the middle. They passed in front of each man and Gee did not show any sign of recognition; he was over his peevishness, apparently right on top of himself.

  They went out.

  “It was the man in the middle,’ Gee stated flatly. “You’ve got him all right. Congratulations. Sorry I was so bad-tempered.”

  “Forget it.” Roger warmed to him. “I needn’t keep you any longer tonight but I may have to call you as a witness later.”

  Gee grimaced.

  “My fiancée told me from the start that I was a mug to get involved in this,” he said. “She doesn’t go for that guff about the responsibility of the citizen.”

  “It’s a good thing you do, or we might still be looking for this chap, and another girl might have been dead.” Roger shook hands very firmly, only half amused by the glow of delight in Gee’s eyes; the man wasn’t much more than twenty-two or three, only a couple of years or so older than his own boys. He saw Gee to the Yard’s gate himself, and saw and heard him driven off. Roger went back to Cannon Row, relieved in one way, anxious and uncertain in another. There was something on his mind, something he’d forgotten. He could not recall it. Jessup hadn’t yet uttered a word, and now he had to be questioned. It might take a long, long time. He stifled a yawn, and went into Cannon Row police station. First a cup of strong coffee, then—