Murder, London--Australia

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Murder, London--Australia Page 10

by John Creasey


  Roger was aware of the girl staring at him, and of the CID woman’s gaze, as if in hopes of quick approval.

  “Very concise,” Roger said. “Just one or two questions, Doreen – mind if I call you Doreen?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you ever hear the two Jessups talking about the Kookaburra?”

  “No, never.”

  “Did Paul ever explain anything more about the accusations of theft?”

  “No.”

  “Did you or Denise ask him about this?”

  “I didn’t, and I don’t think Denise did – she didn’t ever say so, anyhow.” Doreen was quite composed when talking about her sister.

  “Are you sure no one ever told you anything about Paul Jessup – something which might explain his insistence in questioning you?”

  After a pause, as if she was trying to understand the full implications of the question, Doreen said, “No one ever said anything – except about the thefts on board the ship.”

  “Did Paul ever say where he got his money from?” asked Roger.

  “No.”

  “Although you were living in a very ordinary house in a poor quarter of London, did you believe he had plenty of money?”

  “Yes. I saw his wallet, crammed full, more than once.”

  “Did he bring anyone else to see you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever go out to meet any of his friends?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you think this strange?”

  Doreen hesitated, but Roger did not prompt her.

  “It didn’t seem strange at first,” she said. “I went out to work during the day, and in the evenings met Den and rushed off to see London. We couldn’t see enough of it – we loved every bit. We went to places like Windsor and Hampton Court at weekends – Den loved the green of the grass – she—”

  The girl’s eyes flooded with tears, but she fought them back, and went on, “Some evenings we went out to a movie, or dozed, or watched television. It wasn’t until Denise went away that it really seemed strange. Then I was too frightened to think about it. It was like a nightmare – waiting, waiting.”

  Now the tears spilled over.

  When she had recovered, Roger asked quietly, “Did the Jessups ever talk about Ben Limm?”

  Immediately Doreen was on her guard.

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Did Ben ever talk about them?”

  “No!”

  “Never?” asked Roger, still gently.

  “He said he didn’t trust them. He had lunch with us the day we got to London, and we told him what the Jessups were going to do. He tried to stop us. He said they couldn’t be trusted out of sight. He seemed to hate them!”

  “Did he say why?”

  “It was because of the trouble on the ship. It must have been.” For the first time since Roger had arrived hostility and suspicion were back in her manner – and again emotion touched her elfin face with unexpected beauty. “Why do you keep on about Ben?”

  Roger answered almost before the question was out.

  “Because all the other passengers on the Kookaburra who stayed in London have been attacked – except Benjamin Limm. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  For a moment, Doreen looked shocked. Then anger flared in her eyes, and she jumped up and raised a clenched fist.

  12

  Flying Orders

  Roger did not move or flinch. The girl’s cheeks were fiery red and her blue eyes sparked with her anger. For a moment it looked as if she would strike him, but she stopped herself, lowered her arm, and swung away.

  “No, I don’t think it’s odd. You’ve got it in for Ben for some crazy reason.”

  “Doreen—” began Roger.

  “Don’t call me Doreen!”

  “Miss Morrison, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, it is most noteworthy that no one has shown any enmity towards Mr Limm. If you blind yourself to that you will be very silly. You might endanger your life again.”

  She flared up again. “Why do you keep accusing Ben?”

  “I’m trying to make you understand that you don’t know him well enough to trust him implicitly,” Roger answered. “You only met him on the ship.”

  “Anyone would think you knew he was a criminal!”

  “I simply don’t know enough about him yet,” Roger said. “He may be, he probably is, everything he says he is. I hope that’s how it turns out. But don’t take him or anyone for granted until the whole truth is known.”

  Doreen was standing facing him, her lips quivering.

  “If you hadn’t let Marcus Jessup get away you wouldn’t have to try to find a scapegoat.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, would I?” Roger said. “I can tell you one thing for certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marcus Jessup – whose real name is Barring”—Roger paused long enough to judge whether that revelation meant anything to her, but she showed no sign—“has left London. We think he is on his way to Australia. You might be safer in this country until he’s caught.”

  Doreen drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I hate this country! I want to get out, out, out! Don’t you understand? I want to go home. The police there won’t let such dreadful things happen. I want to go home!”

  Roger picked up the statement from the bed, and handed it to her, together with a pen.

  “Sign this,” he said. “Then you will be free to go.”

  She put the paper on a small table; it rustled a little under her unsteady fingers but her signature was swift and firm. She handed it to him with an air of defiance which showed no sign of waning.

  “If I were you I’d stay here for the night,” Roger advised. “But please yourself. Mr Limm will be here at about half past seven.”

  He nodded, without smiling, and turned away. He half expected Doreen to call him back, but she did not.

  Next morning he had a report that Limm visited the nursing home on time, had a meal there with Doreen, and left at about ten o’clock. There was a later report: that Limm had booked two economy class seats on a BOAC flight from London Airport to Sydney. The plane was due to leave at 1015 on Monday in five days’ time, and was due in Sydney on the Wednesday afternoon.

  During the next two days there were no new developments of any significance. No news had come in about Sam Hackett, who was in fact having an incredibly wonderful time with his new light o’ love in a small town in the Loire district. Sam appeared to be so enamoured that he might at any time propose marriage. He was seventy-seven, but nothing in his appearance or in his behaviour suggested he was a day over sixty.

  The Parrishes, Jack and Jill, were enjoying the voyage back to Australia quite as much as they had enjoyed the one to England. Life was still a honeymoon, a long, golden honeymoon. They had not even heard of what had happened to their fellow passengers in London. Even had they known that Marcus Jessup, alias Barring, was in Sydney waiting for the return of the ship, it would not have worried them; they were too happy, and completely unaware of danger. Jack Parrish was a tall, rangy Queenslander, lean-faced, full of vigour and vitality. Jill was nearly as tall, a handsome girl with a fine full figure who always ate a little too much. She was invariably cheerful. She worshipped her husband for his kindness, his humour, his devotion, and the grey flecks in his hair.

  They were then twelve days out of Sydney.

  On that particular day, the Friday before Doreen and Limm were to fly from London, it was very hot in Sydney, but dry and free from humidity. After a sticky late April, Sydneyites revelled in the day and began to hope that the weather would hold for the weekend. About five o’clock in the afternoon (seven o’clock in the morning in London, where Roger West was just getting up) Superint
endent Luke Shaw of the Sydney CIB sat signing the day’s letters. He was a big, broad-faced man, who in repose could look almost dull, but in action had the speed and sharpness of a ferret.

  There was a tap at his door, and it opened. He glanced up to see a young CIB officer, in plain-clothes! It would have surprised Roger West to see such a caller, unheralded, in an office the equivalent to Hardy’s. Shaw wasn’t surprised; he kept an ever-ready ear open to all the staff.

  “Come in, Dyson. What’s on your mind?” The subject could be anything from troubles at home to troubles in the office, an unofficial report or a complaint about a senior officer.

  “I’ve got a suggestion to make, sir, about the filing system in the Handwriting Section when we move to the new premises.”

  “Told Jack Clark about it?”

  “He said to see you.”

  “What is it?” asked Shaw.

  “Instead of filing with the new cases at the front and the old ones at the back, why not vice versa?” suggested Dyson. “Most references are to older cases – it would save time.”

  “I’ll have a word with Jack, but don’t run away with the idea that any department’s going to have all the room they want when we move. They’re converting an old factory, not putting up a new police palace like they do in the country towns such as Coffs Harbour.” Shaw was half serious. “If it saves time it’s all right with me, but I don’t want any changes for the sake of change.”

  “I won’t suggest any of that kind,” Dyson assured him.

  The telephone bell rang. Shaw picked it up as he waved Dyson away. Anyone who asked for him was put straight through; in Luke Shaw’s book, formality was another word for loss of time.

  “Shaw.”

  “Luke Shaw?” a man asked.

  “Yes, this is Luke Shaw.”

  “Superintendent Luke Shaw?” the caller insisted.

  Shaw frowned, the instinct for suspicion alert in him now. He shifted his position, pressed a bell for someone from outside to come in, and answered without any show of suspicion; there was a faint note of asperity in his voice, that was all.

  “Yes, Superintendent Shaw speaking. Who is that?”

  “You bloody coppers,” the caller said. “You or the bloody pommies. You’re going to get some shocks before this is over. Barring’s back – Marcus Barring. You couldn’t keep him out of the country, could you? The pommies couldn’t keep him in theirs and you couldn’t keep him out of ours. I’m telling you – he’s spoiling for a fight.”

  The line went dead as a sergeant came in from next door. The sergeant stood very still, watching Shaw’s face, understanding his senior officer so well that he did not need telling that this was no time to talk.

  At last, Shaw spoke.

  “Marcus Barring’s in town. Put out an all-state alert.” He banged the platform of the telephone up and down, and when the operator answered, he said sharply, “Get me Superintendent West of Scotland Yard . . . yes, London. Eh?”

  He scowled.

  “He’ll be in his office around nine o’clock, I should say. I’ll stay here until the call comes through.” He put the receiver down and pressed a bell. A moment later an older, white-haired man came in – Shaw’s deputy.

  “Mac, Marcus Barring’s in town.”

  “You sure?” Mac asked, reflectively.

  “We had a tip-off,” Shaw replied, “and the squeaker knew what he was talking about. I want you to drop everything, and concentrate on this. Handsome West should be on the line in a couple of hours, be ready to listen in on an extension.”

  Mac said, “My word I will.” He smoothed down silky, snow-white hair, which with his pale, blemishless skin gave him something of the look of an albino. “I’d like one more thing, Luke.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Confirmation that Barring’s here.”

  “Not satisfied?”

  “Nor would you be if anyone else said so on the strength of one phone call. I’m prepared to bet you’re right, but we still need proof.”

  “That’s what we’ll get if enough of our chaps keep their eyes open,” Shaw retorted. He looked up at a tap at the door. “Come in.” It was a youngish man, red-haired, bright-eyed. “What is it, Red? I’m busy right now.”

  “You’re not too busy for this,” the younger man said. “Here’s a cable from West of the Yard.”

  He came up to the desk and planted a handwritten note in front of Shaw.

  “Doreen Morrison and the man Limm are flying here early next week. West also says Marcus Barring has been traced as far as Bombay. They lost trace then. He could be in New South Wales by now.”

  Shaw nodded.

  “I’ll be talking to West in a couple of hours,” he said. “If anything else comes in from the Yard, or there’s any word about Barring, let me know. You right?”

  “I’m right,” Red said, and hurried out.

  On that Friday morning Roger West arrived at the office just after eight o’clock. It was empty. He realised how accustomed he had become to seeing Kebble there. His desk was clear except for a couple of messages, put there recently. The morning’s mail wasn’t in yet, and his own desk was exactly as he had left it the previous night. As he sat down, loosening his collar, a telephone bell rang. He answered at once.

  “West.”

  “I heard you were in,” the operator said. “There’s a call coming through from Sydney, New South Wales, sir. What time can you take it?”

  “Any time,” Roger said eagerly.

  “It will be in about half an hour then. Will you stay in your office?”

  “If I have to leave it I’ll let you know where to find me.”

  “If you would, sir.”

  Roger put down the telephone, trying to discourage his rising excitement and an almost choky feeling of suffocation, an unreasoned presentiment which had been like a shadow over him from the beginning of this case. Again his mind flashed to the possibility of flying to Australia, but he set the thought firmly aside. He sat for a few seconds, then put in a call to Information.

  “Who was watching Limm last night?”

  “Detective Sergeant Scott, sir.”

  “Has he reported?”

  “All was well at eight o’clock, when he was relieved by Detective Officer Warrender.”

  “And Miss Morrison?”

  “The same, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said.

  He went across to the window and looked out upon the Embankment. It was a grey, cheerless morning, with a spittle of rain in the air. The Thames was absolutely flat, rippling only when a string of barges or a motorboat passed. He wondered what kind of sea the Kookaburra was sailing through. It could be rough down there among the islands. He moved across to the bookcase by the side of his desk, took down a thick atlas, and turned to the Far East. The ship should be somewhere near the Philippines in the seas of countless islands, tropical heat, cyclones which could swallow up great ships.

  It should be near there, but – was it?

  If there was any trouble at all with the Kookaburra, word would come through in a few hours. In these days of swift communication ships didn’t simply vanish without a trace.

  A thought came to him, swift and binding. He stood very still, poring over the page in the atlas. He turned abruptly, sat down and took up the file on the Kookaburra case, opened it, and thumbed it through. Kebble had prepared the file with his usual thoroughness. Roger came upon a smooth, shiny brochure with a white slip on it. The Blue Flag Line Sailing Lists. On the first page was a list of the ships of the line, and at the top the note:

  The Blue Flag Line is today a fleet of 27 modern cargo vessels, each of which carries passengers. Each ship sails from Australian ports carrying Australian goods to all parts of the world. From the Kangaroo, the
commodore ship of the line, twenty-two thousand tons gross with first-class accommodation for over 200 passengers to the Kookaburra, of seven thousand tons gross weight carrying 12 first-class passengers, the 27 ships have the best possible facilities for both passengers and cargo.

  There followed a list of the ships. Kangaroo, Blue Gem, Merino, Alice, Barbarossa . . . each one had some kind of Australian association although he was not aware of the full significance of it.

  Somewhere on the Seven Seas ships of the Blue Flag Line were carrying precious cargoes . . .

  If this was a campaign of hate against the Blue Flag Line, why stop at the Kookaburra? Why stop at any one vessel? There were twenty-seven ships of the line.

  His telephone bell rang. It seemed to rasp at him from some other world, jarring through the quiet of the office and the shocked stillness of his own mind. It rang again and again. When he lifted it there was asperity in the operator’s voice. “Oh, you are there. Your call from Australia.”

 

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