Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  Soon, she said, “Ben, you’ll always keep me safe, won’t you?”

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.

  On the deck of the SS Kookaburra, now sailing past the southern tip of the Isle of Celebes towards the Timor Sea at a steady sixteen knots, Jack and Jill Parrish were standing at the rail. The night was starlit and calm, and very warm. Jill wore a thin cotton frock, a bra, and panties; all the night demanded. Jack Parrish, twelve years or so her senior, stood with his arms about her, caressingly. It was as if it was impossible for them to be alone together too often. Each was completely absorbed in the other.

  Their cheeks touched.

  “There’s only one thing wrong,” Jill said softly.

  “Nothing’s wrong, my sweet.”

  “We’ve six days left, that’s all.”

  “We’ve a lifetime left,” Jack Parrish said.

  “It can’t ever be quite the same.”

  “You’d be surprised how romantic banana plantations can be,” Parrish said, and made her laugh. That was one of the wonderful things about him: he could always make her laugh, always make her relish every minute of living.

  A passenger, a man, walked past them, cigarette glowing.

  “Goodnight.”

  They echoed, “Goodnight.”

  Parish squeezed his wife’s waist again, and said, “We might as well go down.”

  “Hm-hm.”

  She stood and watched the dark bosom of the sea, until he led her slowly, gently, to their cabin.

  Old Sam Hackett lay in bed.

  He knew by now that he wasn’t so young as he once had been, and he was tired – nearly exhausted. He was also very, very contented! It was a strange feeling for a man who had been so active most of his life, and never content when doing nothing.

  He watched Thérèse.

  She was thirty-five or six, he knew, and that was very young to him. He had admired her fine figure from the time they had first met, when he had been on a nightclub tour of Paris and she had been a hostess. Now he could admire her body, so full, so firm. She was not shameless, but simply natural with him.

  He could ask her to marry him.

  He could not make up his mind whether to or not, for two reasons. She might refuse, and that would be a great blow to his pride, for he believed she loved him. It had been a strange belief at first, but now it was firm and deep, although he was afraid to put it to the test. The second reason was one he resented in a way, although he could blame only himself for it.

  Did he really want to get married? A widower for over ten years, he had been used to doing exactly what he pleased and going wherever he wished. Just now, this Junoesque woman with her broken English and her matter-of-factness, infatuated him. He wanted nothing more than to be with her. She turned away from the table, where she had been making coffee with an electric percolator. She wore a short-length dressing-gown, open at the front, and it gaped farther as she carried two full cups nearly at arms’ length. She sat down in a wicker chair filled with cushions, balancing the cups dexterously.

  She handed him one.

  “This is what you need, old one,” she said. Her eyes laughed at him. “This will make a man of you!”

  He found himself laughing.

  What would she say if he asked her to marry him? Would she laugh at him, then? Did she know how rich he was? What would his friends say if he took a new wife back to Australia?

  As the 707 flew towards Sydney the sky in the east was a glory in gold touched with red, rich as a deep rose lit by the bright morning sun. The light spread over the sleeping city, lighting up the windows of the tall, new skyscrapers, bathing the clear, calm water of the harbour with its warm beauty. The beaches, surf-rimmed as if with sugar icing, stretched in all directions. The bridge was like an enormous toy, and already busy with traffic.

  “Our new headquarters is over there,” Luke Shaw said, pointing. “We haven’t moved in yet. And even then we won’t have everything in the same building. Funny thing, they’ll spend millions on business houses and opera houses but when it comes to police headquarters we have to settle for an old factory. The tall, narrow building, the new one with the silvery look, that’s Ocean House. The Blue Flag Line’s offices are on the top two floors. The directors and their secretaries are on the top floor – fourteen. I told you that Raymond Flag is the Chairman and I told you that his brother Gregory is the managing director, didn’t I? They’re both Australian born.”

  “And Mortimer, the Secretary, is an English cousin who’s been here fifteen years,” Roger said. “Yes, you told me.”

  “Thought you might have forgotten,” Luke said slyly. Then more excitedly, “Look down there! See, near the docks – follow the harbour along from the bridge, see that ship? Is she moving in or out?”

  Roger craned his neck forward to see, and immediately saw the white funnel and the blue flag painted on it. Then it was lost to sight as the aircraft made a slow turn.

  “There’s our problem,” Shaw went on. “Whether to warn all the masters of the ships or not. I told you I think we should, and I’ve told the Commissioner, too. We’re due for that conference this afternoon. We’ll have the answer then.”

  “What does the Commissioner think?” asked Roger.

  “Don’t know. He’s a fly old customer, you can never be sure which way he’ll jump – but he won’t be difficult at the conference, if he decides against us he’ll tell us ourselves.”

  Roger, watching the green fields of the Kingsford Smith Airport, didn’t speak.

  “I’m taking it for granted you think everyone should be warned,” Shaw said. “You haven’t said so yet, Handsome.”

  “Haven’t sized it up in my mind,” Roger admitted. “Let’s see what turns up.”

  He saw the notice to fasten seat belts flash on and off; it was becoming almost second nature to do so now. A plumper, prettier stewardess went along to check the belts. The aircraft lost height. He wondered how Doreen Morrison was feeling, felt that sense of impending disaster as he had so often. He was on his feet almost as soon as they had come to a standstill, and the first out of the cabin. The sun was blinding, almost white. He climbed down the steps with Shaw on his heels. A police car was waiting, and several plain-clothes men were standing about.

  “Three of my chaps are there to look after the girl and Limm,” said Shaw. “You worry too much. Nothing will happen here.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  Soon, Limm and Doreen got down. The girl was nervous, glancing about her in all directions. If danger struck, she seemed to say, this was when it would strike hardest; and that was probably true. CIB men ranged themselves alongside the couple. Limm kept his arm round Doreen, even when they were close to a police car.

  “They’re all right,” Shaw said with satisfaction as they got in. “What about coming to my place for a bit of breakfast, Handsome?”

  “Luke, do you know what I’d like to do?”

  Shaw grinned.

  “Be on your own for a few hours, hey?”

  “I might get rid of these nerves you say I’ve got.”

  “Okay, okay. There’ll be plenty of time to meet my better half. You’ve got a reservation at the Wentworth, it’s the quietest of our big hotels. Soon going to be pulled down,” he added. “There won’t be any of old Sydney left, soon.”

  The police car with Doreen and Limm turned out of the airport.

  “In half an hour they’ll be tucked up in a small hotel, which will be guarded back and front,” said Shaw. “No one else knows which hotel, so there can’t be a reception party.”

  Roger said quietly, “Luke, so far they’ve managed to kill anyone they’ve set their minds on. We don’t really know why, we don’t know who’s next on their list, if anyone. Until we’ve caught the two Barring brothers and we know
the danger’s over, I’m not going to rest easy. Are you?”

  Shaw grinned.

  “Maybe I’m harder-hearted than you,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I think every Blue Flag Line ship should be warned of danger – every Master compelled to have his vessel searched. We don’t know that the Koala was blown up, we don’t know that the Kookaburra will be – but the risk is great enough for action stations for my money. That’s what I’m going to fight for at the conference.”

  Roger nodded.

  “Try to see it my own way,” Shaw urged. “There are some papers in your room giving you a breakdown on the Blue Flag Line and the men who run it. They’ll all be at the conference, and if you think I’m a hard nut, you wait until you meet them.”

  The room at the hotel overlooked a small, triangular green, and by craning his neck Roger could just see the top of the great arch of the bridge. After a shower and breakfast, he settled down to the documents, and was halfway through them when his telephone rang.

  “Handsome, that conference has been put off until tomorrow,” Luke Shaw said. “There’s a big company fraud brewing up and I’ve got to spend time on it. Mortimer Flag’s flown to Adelaide about some trouble with a cargo of hides. Like a man to show you round?”

  “Let me find my own way,” Roger said.

  “I can easily send a man—”

  “I’d like to get the feel of this place,” Roger said, and meant it.

  He spent much of the day walking, and took an occasional bus ride, using a map from the hotel. He went to the tall, silvery-walled Ocean House where the Blue Flag Line had its headquarters, the wharves, the bridge lookout, the small private hotel where Limm and Doreen were staying. All the time he felt a sense of urgency conflicting with a desire to see more and more of the city.

  That night he had dinner at Luke Shaw’s home near Manly, a small white house on a hill overlooking a small bay. Mrs Shaw, small, unexpectedly young looking and bright-eyed, cooked leg of lamb to rare succulence.

  “I know you haven’t done much today,” Luke said. “But you’ll benefit from it, Handsome. Any new ideas during the day?”

  “They’re simmering,” Roger said, and added under his breath, “I hope.”

  Next morning he stood looking at the triangle of green grass and shrubs, and farther away, the sweeping approaches to the Harbour Bridge; from here the bridge looked more man-made, more as if it belonged to the surroundings. He brooded for five minutes, then had a shower and ordered breakfast. He went back to the window, half wishing he could see a Blue Flag steamer.

  He noticed a man strolling across the green, one of several who had been lounging and lazing there, night workers or layabouts. Roger moved away, then looked from one side of the window; the man was moving nearer, glancing towards the hotel. Roger felt his pulse racing. At this distance he couldn’t be sure, but this looked like Marcus Barring. He went to his bag, took out a small pair of field-glasses, and reached the window again when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  He focused the glasses on the man on the green as an elderly waiter came in with a tray.

  Marcus Barring was, indeed, watching the hotel. There was now no doubt of his rather heavy features, the glasses even showed his pitted face.

  Between grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade Roger kept looking out. Barring was still lounging, keeping to himself although more men were about now. Roger finished, deliberated, and decided not to call Shaw. Every now and again a chance had to be taken, and he decided to take one now. He opened the box again, put the glasses away, and took out a small, whippy cosh, the only weapon he carried wherever he went. He put this in his jacket pocket, and went downstairs and outside. He strolled towards the Harbour Bridge, held up at the main road by the flow of morning rush-hour traffic. When he was safely across he strolled as far as he could towards the bridge, then turned back. Already his exploration of the city the day before was proving invaluable.

  Barring was now across the road.

  Roger strolled farther along, looking at the street map. There was a criss-cross of narrow streets, some leading down towards the river. He did not look round except at one corner, a deliberate appraisal of the old terraced houses and the trees. Barring was still behind him, dressed in pale-grey trousers and a loose-fitting sweater. Then he went on, along Kent Street, crossed several other turnings. It was summer warmth for him, already; he wished he could take his jacket off. He saw the masts and funnels of shipping down another side street, and walked to a bridge from which he could see a great stretch of the harbour. There were thirty or forty vessels in sight, and two of them had Blue Flag funnels. He went down a flight of stone steps towards the river but even on a small jetty jutting out into the water, he could not get near enough to see them clearly.

  “I wonder if Luke’s watching them.” He half regretted his decision not to call the Sydney man.

  He told himself there was no need to wonder, that Luke Shaw was not a man to leave anything to chance. He actually smiled. Luke would pull out all the stops to show the Yard what Sydney could do.

  Still smiling, Roger turned.

  The man who had tried to knife Doreen Morrison in London was only ten yards behind him, right hand in his pocket, as if he held a knife.

  16

  Braggart?

  “Superintendent bloody West,” Barring rasped. “You didn’t expect to see me, cobber, did you?”

  Roger said equably, “I hoped to, Barring.”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “I hoped to,” Roger repeated. “From the moment I saw you from my window. Who told you I was at the Wentworth?”

  “The birds,” jeered Barring. “They’ll take Shaw the news of your death, too.”

  “Not for a long time,” Roger said.

  He put his hand to his jacket pocket; Barring watched very closely. He took out a packet of cigarettes, and some matches, lit up, and put cigarettes and matches back. He felt the smooth leather of the cosh, curled round inside.

  “Let me tell you something. Wu Hong told us all about your generous payment for a murder which didn’t come off. If you want hirelings to do their job properly, you ought to pay them better. You get paid enough.”

  “And I’ll get a bonus for killing you.” Barring kept his hand in his pocket; he seemed to clench it there.

  “Kill me, and you’ll have every policeman in Australia and England looking for you,” Roger said. “You’re in a bad enough jam as it is. Don’t make it worse.”

  “You’ve got a nerve!”

  “Of course I’ve got a nerve,” Roger said impatiently. “All coppers have to have. Why don’t you take the one chance you’ve got?”

  Barring didn’t speak, but he looked puzzled. His eyes were a muddy brown, and he breathed through very thick lips. Together with his broad nostrils they seemed to indicate a touch of aboriginal blood. Suddenly, it flashed on Roger that this man was not unlike Lancelot Smith.

  Roger took the cigarette from his mouth.

  “It’s probably your last chance,” he said. “Please yourself.” He half turned.

  “Don’t move!” Barring ordered.

  Roger turned back.

  “Get this into your thick head. I’m not going to be frightened by you and I’ll leave when I want to. If you use the knife you’ve got in your pocket you’ll sign your own death warrant.” He half expected a harsh, ‘And yours?’ but it didn’t come. “Make up your mind. You can save your neck – if you act soon enough.”

  “I’ll look after my own neck,” Barring said, but he was even more puzzled. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, West?”

  “Make a full statement, name the people you’re working for, and give us evidence against them. It couldn’t fail to make things easy for you.”

  �
��You think you know a lot!”

  Roger said, “No one’s going to hang me.”

  Barring began to scowl.

  Roger shrugged.

  “No one hanged your brother Paul, but he’s dead.”

  Barring’s eyes blazed.

  “You bloody cops made him do that!”

  “No, we didn’t,” Roger said flatly. “As far as we know, he killed himself. Didn’t he know what was in that capsule he swallowed?”

  “He knew,” Barring asserted as if he was quite sure. “He knew and so did I. You don’t know half as much as you think you do, copper. Let me tell you something. The Blue Flag Line finished my family. They killed my mother and damned near killed my Dad. They’re a murdering lot of thieving swine, and before I’ve finished with them they won’t have a ship left.”

  “Twenty-seven is a lot of ships to sink,” Roger said.

  “Twenty-seven, fifty-seven, a hundred and seven – what difference does it make? I tell you there won’t be a ship left of the Blue Flag Line.” Barring began to draw his hand out of his pocket. “And it won’t make any difference to me whether I kill you or not. If it wasn’t for you Paul would be alive, and if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be on the run. So I’m going to send you to Paul. Understand? No one gets away with killing a Barring. When the Blue Flag swine swindled the Barring Line they started something they couldn’t finish. As long as there’s a single Barring left the Blue Flag will—”

  Roger half turned again, his right hand at his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Barring flash the knife, and he dropped flat on to the hard ground. Would Barring throw or stab? Barring was leaping forward, surprised by Roger’s move. Roger could see only his legs and feet, and could not tell whether the knife was being plunged downwards. He rolled over, kicking out at Barring’s legs. He caught an ankle and heard the man gasp. He pulled the cosh out of his pocket, glimpsed Barring staggering away, with the knife still in his hand.