Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  “I’ll take it.”

  “It’s Superintendent Shaw.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Handsome,” Shaw said. This time he seemed rather farther away, but his voice and his words were clear enough. “I’ve some news for you. Marcus Barring is here in New South Wales. It’s positive now – he’s been seen by two uniformed men, but they weren’t able to pick him up. It looks as if he’ll be waiting here – for the Parrishes and for the Morrison girl and Limm.”

  “Could be,” Roger said. “Watch them closely, Luke.”

  “It’s a hell of a problem,” Shaw said. “We can’t be sure there’s any danger to anyone on the Kookaburra, and we can’t be sure the Kookaburra’s in danger.”

  “We can’t be sure which ship in the Blue Flag Line is in danger, can we?” asked Roger. “We’ve got to get Barring, we’ve got to get his missing brother Solomon. Luke, how about a man six feet tall, thirty-five or so, between colours, grey eyes, slightly curly hair, full of vitality, very direct way of talking. Could that be Solomon Barring?”

  “It could,” answered Shaw, shortly. “Yes, it could.”

  “Check on Benjamin Limm, of Cowra—” began Roger.

  “I’m checking,” said Shaw. “It’s just conceivable . . .”

  He broke off.

  “One thing’s certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The centre of the case has moved into this hemisphere.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Coming on the same plane as Limm and the girl?” enquired Shaw.

  “I’ll let you know,” said Roger. “I very much doubt it.”

  Hardy was in early that Friday. It was one of his good mornings – Roger sometimes wondered whether his moods were due to pressures at home.

  “It’s taken you a long time to get round to it,” he said. “Yes – the same plane as Limm is a good idea. Can Kebble keep your office ticking over?”

  In a curious mood between excitement and apprehension, Roger said:

  “He’s certainly worth a trial. Then I’ll go?”

  “Don’t ask me to square it with your wife,” Hardy said drily.

  13

  Flight

  Janet was at London Airport to see Roger off. Both boys had staked a claim to accompany her, but they were at their jobs, and Janet, trying not to show how much she wished she was going, was allowed into the roped-off section where the passengers waited. This was almost the identical spot where Percy Sheldon had died. Over by that same buffet, open to passengers and visitors and doing a brisk trade, Paul Barring alias Jessup had jabbed home the deadly needle.

  Limm was standing there with Doreen.

  In another corner Cyril Gee and his Sal were present under restrained protest, to tell the police if they saw anyone who had been here on the afternoon of Sheldon’s death. So far they had shown no sign. It was just on ten o’clock, and the call for the passengers to board the aircraft would soon be made. Janet was almost too bright-eyed; Australia was a long way off, and Roger’s trips abroad too few for her to be used to saying goodbye for any long period.

  “. . . and if it’s too hot in Sydney, you must buy a lightweight suit,” she was saying.

  That was when young Cyril Gee seemed to come alive. He had seen someone he recognised. Roger moved his head to look about. Janet went on talking. Gee was looking towards a noisy group near the newsstand. Two policemen, including Sandys of the airport police, were watching him. The members of the party moved, hilariously, and beyond them Roger could now see Lancelot Smith, the Blue Flag Line’s London manager.

  Gee caught Roger’s eye.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Janet said, more forlorn than angry. “Roger, please. It’s a different climate, and it’s bound to take you a day or two to get used to it. You must be careful.”

  A clear voice sounded above hers, above all the sounds of the airport building.

  “Will all passengers for Flight 34 for Zurich, Rome, Beirut, Bahrain, Delhi, Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Sydney please take their seats.”

  There was a surge forward by thirty or forty passengers, those eager to move off. The crowd was suddenly much thinner. Lancelot Smith, his simian face strangely incongruous against his immaculate clothes, drew nearer the cordon. He was looking about him as if in desperation – as if he must see someone he knew to be here but was afraid he was too late.

  He saw Roger, and changed direction. So did Sandys, and a Yard man, but they were farther away. Roger felt a moment of absolute panic. It was as if Smith was coming at him, with murder in his eyes. He carried an umbrella and raised it.

  Janet said in sudden alarm, “Roger! What is it?”

  Roger stepped swiftly in front of her, as if that umbrella was lethal.

  “Mr West!” called Smith. “Mr West.”

  He was waving his umbrella.

  “This is ridiculous,” Roger thought. “He can’t mean any harm, I’m making a fool of myself.”

  “Roger!” breathed Janet.

  “Mr West! Superintendent—”

  Sandys and the big Yard man ranged themselves on either side of Smith; even if he intended harm he could do none now. Roger raised one hand to acknowledge him, and touched Janet’s shoulder.

  “Just stay here. I won’t be a minute.” He went forward. Neither of the other detectives touched Smith but they were within hands’ reach. He did not seem to notice them. His upper lip was beaded with big blobs of perspiration. His thick, ponderous lower lip was quivering. His eyes seemed buried behind the high cheekbones.

  “Mr West, there is something I must tell you.”

  Janet was whispering in Roger’s ear.

  “Jan, quiet, please. Yes, Mr Smith?” His voice changed from imploring to curt and hostile.

  Smith was only a foot or two away from him. He was breathing heavily; stertorously. His words came out with great difficulty.

  “I want to warn—to warn—you. It could happen to—to any ship of ours. Any ship. Believe me. None is safe.” Sweat in great blobs was on his forehead. “I should have told you before. I was too—too frightened.”

  Janet was whispering.

  “For God’s sake keep quiet!” Roger half turned as he spoke to her, and saw how shocked she was. The Yard man by Smith had his notebook out. “Who is doing this?” Roger demanded roughly. “Where is —”

  Smith staggered. Sandys grabbed him, as if afraid he would fall.

  “He’s terribly ill!” Janet cried.

  That was what she had been trying to say.

  “Find the—the Barring family. They—they hate—” Smith choked on the word, then sucked in a rasping breath.

  “Where is Solomon Barring?” Roger asked, now almost savagely. “Is there anyone else? Tell me!”

  “Marcus—Marcus is back in Australia. I don’t—don’t know where Solomon is. I don’t—”

  Smith almost fell, his knees buckling, out of control.

  “He’s dying,” Janet cried. “Get a doctor! Roger, get a doctor.”

  Smith looked like a great ape as he clutched Sandys’ arm.

  “I took—I took strychnine,” he gasped. “I couldn’t face—face my responsibility. I should have told—”

  A man pushed his way through the crowd as Smith broke into a piercing scream of agony. He fell out of Sandys’ grasp, his body seemed to writhe, then straightened out as if he were on a rack; then arched. The thrusting man bent over him as he screamed again but it was only a rasping echo of the earlier sound.

  Roger stood staring, Janet beside him, shocked.

  “Will all passengers for Flight 34 for Zurich, Rome, Beirut, Bahrain, Delhi, Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Sydney please take their seats.”

  Sandys said gruffly, “I’ll get that flight pos
tponed for half an hour.”

  He moved off as other policemen came up.

  Nearby the Gees stood, stunned as was everyone who had seen or heard, staring at the stricken man. Roger was acutely conscious of the way he had shouted at Janet, yet was trying to assimilate all that Smith had told him. Now he knew more of the truth and the full horror of what could happen, it tore at his mind.

  Janet stood in front of him.

  “It’s all right, darling,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, please don’t worry.” She was pleading. “It was my fault.”

  “Your—”

  “I’m going to leave, you must look after this,” Janet said. Her eyes were glistening with tears, her hand was tight on his. “Take care of yourself.”

  She put her face up.

  He bent down, slowly. Suddenly, he swept her into his arms, and held her close with a fierce hug. He could feel her heart thumping, thumping. He could feel his heart, racing, racing. How much she meant to him; how much they meant to each other.

  He let her go. He had a glimpse of her face for a moment; it was radiant. Then she turned and pushed her way through the crowd. The cordon was gone, so many police and officials were about. Smith had come out of the first spasm, and his body was relaxed, but the next would come soon, bringing its agony; and the next and next, until he died.

  Could the doctor help him?

  He was trying to say something as he lay there, looking at Roger. Roger moved forward, and went down on one knee.

  Smith was whispering, “Did this—myself. Awful—awful—quite awful. Save—save them. Please—”

  Then his body was caught in the awful second spasm, the breath was forced out of his mouth in a hideous screech, his body arched. The doctor said to Roger:

  “We’ll have him away in a few seconds. I doubt if he’ll talk again.”

  “Can you help him?”

  “With the pain, yes. He’s gone too far for anything else.”

  “Will passengers for Flight 34 to Zurich, Rome, and places east please take their seats.”

  Two men appeared with a stretcher, and Sandys arrived just as they were lifting Smith on to it.

  “Take your time, Handsome – you can have twenty minutes. If you decide to catch a later plane—”

  Doreen Morrison and Ben Limm were on this one.

  “I’ll catch 34,” Roger said. “I’ll just have a word with my chaps.”

  He moved, and saw Kebble, hurrying. The incredible thing about the young sergeant was that whenever he was wanted he was at hand.

  “What’s brought you?” Roger demanded.

  “Smith rang up and said he had to talk to you,” Kebble answered. “He sounded desperate, so I thought I ought to be here if he missed you.”

  Kebble looked at the stretcher and the now relaxed figure covered with a blanket.

  “Did he say anything?”

  Roger told him.

  “My God!” Kebble muttered. “And there are twenty-seven ships in that line.”

  “Telephone Sydney, talk to Shaw, tell him exactly what Smith said,” ordered Roger. “Don’t make any suggestion about what to do – leave it entirely to him. The sergeant here made a lot of notes – give Shaw the lot, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep my wife posted,” Roger said. “She saw the collapse, but she may not believe Smith committed suicide. Check, make sure – I don’t think there’s any doubt, but make sure – then call on my wife and tell her. Otherwise she’ll run around with the idea that it will be my turn next.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Kebble promised.

  Roger shook hands.

  “Take a night off now and again, for Kitty’s sake,” he said. “Never lose a chance of time off, Keb – there’ll be a hell of a lot of nights when you’ll have to stand her up.”

  Kebble looked astounded. “You know about Kit?”

  Roger grinned.

  “The Yard’s just a big village,” he said. “You’ll find out.”

  He turned and made his way to the entrance gate, stepped through to the vast expanse of the airfield. He was almost deafened by the roar of a great plane, some distance off. He had expected to see a Comet; instead a Boeing 707 was waiting.

  Officials hurried with him through the drizzle sweeping miserably across the airfield, even the waiting fire-trucks and petrol-tenders looked forlorn, and a few mechanics were huddled up in macintoshes against the rain.

  “The first-class door is shut, sir, you won’t mind walking through the economy class, will you?”

  “I thought that’s where I was booked.”

  “We like to look after our top Yard man, sir!”

  Roger smiled. “Nice of you.”

  But he wouldn’t be so close to Limm. He climbed up into the aircraft, where two stewards and a stewardess were waiting for him. The stewardess led the way towards the front.

  “Just follow me, sir.”

  He knew that the passengers were staring at him. A man said in an audible whisper, “Some people never learn to be on time.” Limm, on the outside seat next to Doreen, seemed about to speak, but did not. Doreen’s knees were pressed close together; for some odd reason Roger remembered her rather big calves. The stewardess led the way through an open door, into a cabin which was much more spacious, and with larger seats, two on each side of the gangway.

  There were two empty seats on the right.

  “Here you are, Mr West. Seat 7.” The girl smiled. She was not particularly pretty, but had a nice smile and was beautifully made up. “Fasten your seat belt right away, please.”

  “About time, too,’ a woman remarked sourly.

  She didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the fate of hundreds, thousands of people, sailing the Seven Seas in Blue Flag Line ships. A picture of Smith’s ugly, almost animal-like face hovered in front of Roger’s mind. Not daring to face up to the responsibility, the manager had preferred to kill himself. How much more could he have told? Conceivably enough to make a quick end to this case.

  Why hadn’t he wanted to stay alive?

  The aircraft was taxiing. Behind Roger, a woman said, “This is always the moment I hate most.”

  There was a fierce roar and rush of noise, a sense of surging motion. Aircraft, buildings, green fields, and motorcars seemed to rush by. There was a curious kind of silent commotion, a feeling of tension and at the same time of relaxation. The smiling stewardess stood by the lounge door, and a steward talked in a cheerful faintly Cockney voice farther along. The clouds were thick grey-white mist groping at the windows.

  Suddenly, there was bright, almost blinding light; the sun, shining on top of clouds which lost their greyness and were soft and billowing white. Above, the sky was unbelievably blue.

  Roger settled back in his seat.

  Smith’s face faded from his mind’s eye; Janet’s, touched with that radiance, replaced it. Why the devil had he let fly at her like that? He knew the answer, even though it failed to satisfy him. He was far too tense and worked up about this case, with a sense of deep personal involvement. It was no use arguing that the case warranted such tension, anyhow. A policeman must be objective, free from emotional reactions, one could not see the whole of the problem until he did. In a way the flight should help him. He could relax for forty-eight hours, doze, sleep, eat, drink, let the facts drift through his mind. If he needed to send messages, he could do so over the radio; if any news came for him he would have it almost as quickly as he would on the telephone in his office.

  The Channel was hidden by thick cloud. There being nothing to see, Roger closed his eyes. He seemed to have been sitting there for ten minutes when the stewardess touched his shoulder.

  “Fasten your seat belt, please.”

  “Already? Why?” Roger struggled up.<
br />
  “We’re approaching Zurich, Mr West.”

  “That’s the quickest hour I’ve ever passed,” Roger said ruefully.

  “We made up some time, the wind was behind us,” the stewardess told him. “We have three-quarters of an hour here, sir. Will you leave the plane?”

  “I think so,” Roger said.

  As they lost height he got a confused impression of a big city and a big expanse of blue water, all beautiful in the sunlight; London’s drizzle seemed a thousand miles away. Of course, it almost was! He saw one group of people streaming towards Customs, and others waiting about. He left his coat inside the cabin and stepped into summer warmth. A car drew up alongside him and a good-looking, middle-aged man got out.

  “I believe you are Superintendent West.”

  “That’s right,” Roger sounded as surprised as he felt.

  “I am Inspector Muller,” the other said, and shook hands. “I am sorry your visit to Zurich is so brief, but from Kloten here we have a half-hour’s drive to the city, so it is too far. You will have a drink, though, I hope.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Roger said appreciatively.

  “Please get in.” Muller was as immaculate as Smith had been. He closed the door, settled down, and said in a different tone, “I have a message for you, Superintendent. The man Lancelot Smith is dead. That is bad news, I fear.”

  Depression swept Roger’s good spirits away.

  I wonder if we’ll ever know how bad, he thought.

  Brooding over the case could not stop Roger from being transfixed by the beauty and the grandeur of the Alps. He sensed how all the passengers were enthralled as they glided over the thrusting, glistening peaks, the almost audible sigh of regret when they passed over the foothills and flew over the plains. The Mediterranean appeared, so rich a blue that it looked unreal. The ships on it were like white toys. Roger approached Rome, half apprehensive in case there should be another message. There was none, but two handsome Roman police officials were there to greet him with the news that the Donellis appeared to be happy and in no danger at Naples.