Go Away to Murder

by John Creasey

  ‘But your effects aren’t bad,’ he admitted.

  ‘I have always thought you a fool,’ said Riordon slowly. ‘I am now quite sure of it. Dangerous! Haven’t you the sense to understand what I can do, West?’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Drug a few helpless women and frighten a few doting parents, yes. And other odds and ends.’

  He pretended not to be perturbed or impressed by Riordon, and again was relieved that the pretence was fairly easily maintained; he was no longer so scared of the man. Perhaps an additional reason for that was the fact that the room into which he stepped was empty of people. It was a larger lounge, furnished in modern style, making as great a contrast with the staircase and landing outside as the lounge hall had done. Two tall standard lamps with vellum shades stood on either side of a small piano, one of the lights on, the other off. The easy chairs looked comfortable, a small cabinet of inlaid walnut, with books standing on either side of it, was opposite the radiogram; there were delicate water colours on the walls.

  On the small mantelpiece, beneath which was an electric fire, were two photographs. One was of a man, the other of a fluffy-haired woman who was smiling and whose charm seemed to spring out of the likeness.

  Roger was less interested in her than in the man: it was Lionel Michison, smiling like the woman who was presumably his wife. He had clear-cut features and a thin line of moustache; there was a friendliness about his expression which Roger liked.

  At least it was Michison’s flat: there was no trickery in that.

  Riordon said slowly: ‘You are not making things any easier for yourself, West.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ said Roger irritably. ‘We had to meet like this sooner or later, and I don’t mind whether you fixed the appointment or I did. Get it out of your mind that you are the world’s mastermind, Riordon.’ Watching the man’s face he felt that Riordon would soon be worked up into a frenzy, but there was an idea germinating in his mind, and he saw hope if he could develop it properly: the first essential to such development was casualness and self-confidence. If he could only get himself into a frame of mind where he was not alarmed at the immediate prospects, he would be able to carry it off.

  ‘Go on,’ said Riordon.

  ‘About what?’ asked Roger. He sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Why don’t you switch that thing off?’

  As if taken by surprise, Riordon half-turned, then swung round again. His eyes were blazing, and clearly he had expected Roger to leap at him. Roger took out a case and selected a cigarette carefully, replaced the case and then sought for a match. Riordon backed to the radiogram, and took the record off.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘Now, this long overdue talk. You seem to have the impression that we’re frightened of you, and that we daren’t stop you.’

  ‘You certainly daren’t,’ snapped Riordon.

  ‘No?’ Roger raised his eyebrows. ‘If I wanted to I could take you with me to the Yard now, but it would spoil our game, and a very pretty and complicated one it is. With you as a pawn, Riordon. You’ve been a godsend.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I’ve thought that about you,’ said Roger with a bright smile. ‘But as it’s been to my advantage why should I worry? Still, you can go too far, and we may have to take you in whether it suits our purpose or not.’

  ‘Your purpose?’ said Riordon in a strangled voice.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m not fooled, West, don’t think that I am. I know how you are feeling. I know that you and Chatsworth and others at the Yard are frightened to do anything in case the whole story is published. A fine story it will be! Men in high Government positions, highly placed officers in the services, all completely under my influence.’

  Roger said with great deliberation: ‘How foolish can you get?’

  He had succeeded in puzzling the man at the cost of infuriating him, and he had sown the seed of uncertainty, which was what he had set out to do. Riordon was on shifting ground, the first breach in the façade of his incredible self-confidence was in the making. It was a reassuring fact, blinding Roger to what might happen before this strange interview ended. He thought uneasily of Sloan again, then he assured himself that the sergeant must be in one of the other rooms of the flat; and set his anxiety aside.

  ‘You really think that?’ asked Riordon thinly.

  ‘Aren’t we wasting time?’ asked Roger testily. ‘I don’t believe that you seriously think you’re the mighty panjandrum. By the way, where is Michison?’

  ‘Where he will do no more harm,’ said Riordon sharply. ‘And I have had enough of this fool’s talk, West. You came to find out why Michison submitted so easily to me, and you are going to see Morris and Bennett, on the same errand. You will be wasting your time. They will not see you.’

  ‘Won’t they?’

  ‘They will refuse to see you,’ repeated Riordon. ‘Immediately I heard what you were going to do I gave them orders not to allow the interviews.’

  ‘Oh.’ Roger looked slightly put out. ‘And how did you come to know about it?’

  ‘They told me,’ said Riordon sharply. ‘They telephoned me immediately after you called them about the visit, and I gave them very careful instructions. I had less faith in Michison than either of the others, and made different arrangements for him. Would you like to see those arrangements, West?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Roger. ‘Riordon, I—’ He stopped abruptly.

  While remaining wary, he had felt much more sure of himself for some minutes past, although he was watching every movement that the other made. Yet Riordon made none then, and did not even look beyond Roger’s shoulder. Yet there was a movement behind him, although he had felt quite sure that no one else was in the room.

  He schooled himself not to look round, but could not prevent the break in his voice. The movement persisted, but Riordon continued to look at him. Through the temporary silence there came a faint whispering sound, and then, unmistakably, the strains of the Concerto.

  Riordon started.

  ‘Isn’t that the signal for you to skedaddle?’ Roger forced himself to ask.

  Riordon said: ‘Keep quiet.’ He appeared to be listening intently, while the tune went on, not gathering in volume but still seeming to come from a long way off. Then it faded, and Riordon ran a hand through his thick, greying hair. ‘I haven’t much time,’ he said harshly. ‘West, where is that map?’

  The reaction to that after the tune and the brief period of confidence was such that Roger just gaped at him. He hardly realised the full implications of the question. Then without warning Riordon stepped across the room and struck the side of Roger’s face with the palm of his hand. The blow stung, and sent Roger reeling backwards in the chair.

  ‘Where’s the map?’ Riordon demanded. He stood with his hands clenched, as if ready to deliver another blow, and Roger could hear his heavy breathing.

  Roger said with an effort: ‘Don’t do that again.’

  ‘I will strangle the life out of you unless you tell me where the map is!’ shouted Riordon. He seemed quite mad, the glitter in his eyes held a fanatical glint. He curved his hands and put them about Roger’s throat, beginning to squeeze until the breath came with difficulty through Roger’s windpipe. ‘Tell me what you’ve done with it, tell me where it is!’

  Roger brought his right knee up into Riordon’s stomach.

  Riordon was standing in such a position that the full force of the blow struck against the pit of his stomach, but for a split second Roger wondered whether he would find the same steel protection as Mark had done. But the blow went home, and Riordon gasped and staggered back, taking his hands away. Roger jumped to his feet to follow up his advantage, knew that Riordon could not help himself for minutes to come, and was filled with a fierce exhilaration. Then something dropped over his head.


  It was a piece of cloth, and he saw it as he glanced swiftly upwards. He raised a hand to try to push it away, and half-turned. He caught a glimpse of a tiny creature, no more than two feet high, standing on the back of his chair: then the cloth was forced over his face and drawn tightly about his neck.

  Of Lionel Michison

  It was very dark.

  The cords or strings about Roger’s neck were drawn tightly but not enough to threaten to strangle him. His wrists were bound, but not tightly, and he did not think that his assailant had intended the bonds to be permanent. The sacking, or whatever it was over his eyes, smelt faintly musty. It admitted no light.

  He knew that he was still stretched on the floor of Michison’s lounge. He remembered vividly his single glimpse of the dwarf, and could recall how, when he had been knocked off his balance, he had felt the creature’s tiny feet stepping over him. He could recall, too, the touch of very cold, tiny fingers at his wrists.

  Then there had been a sudden silence: one moment the cords had been tightened about him, the next that silence, broken after a few seconds by a sound on the stairs – or that was what he had thought for it had been like hurried footsteps and there had been a hollow, echoing note.

  It seemed a long time since then, but he knew that he had been on the floor only a few minutes. The suddenness of the attack had dazed him, and his head was swimming; he did not realise that it was partly due to the earlier blow on the head and the resounding slap from Riordon. Nor did he know whether to be relieved or alarmed; he came to the conclusion that there was nothing at all normal about Riordon, nothing he expected of the man materialised. He had a vague impression that Riordon had been alarmed when the Concerto had been played a few minutes before; that was reassuring.

  The Concerto had been played by the little dwarf, of course.

  That explained so many things, making it easy to understand how the dwarf could slip into houses without being seen, how he could keep watch for the police and warn Riordon when they were approaching. One uncanny element was explained, anyhow.

  ‘Damn it, what am I doing?’ Roger muttered suddenly.

  He began to work at the cords about his wrists. He was not surprised that they came off with little trouble, but when he began to try to untie the knot at the back of his neck he found it much more difficult. He was sitting up and working at it when he heard another sound.

  A door was opening.

  There followed a soft click, and he imagined a slight lessening of the darkness. Faint footsteps sounded above the beating of his heart, and then another click, as of an electric light switch being pressed down.

  ‘Oh!’ gasped a woman.

  Roger could not see her, but the light from the lamp crept up from his neck and came through the cloth about his head. He tried to speak, but managed only a muffled voice and words which were not clear even to himself. He heard another gasp, and then: ‘Lionel. Lionel!’

  Roger thought vaguely: ‘Lionel? She can’t mean Michison!’

  ‘Hallo,’ came a deep and reassuring man’s voice. ‘What’s the trouble, Fluff?’ More footsteps, heavy but muffled, sounded outside, and then the speaker broke off abruptly. After a pause he went on in a slow voice: ‘Well I’m damned!’ Another pause: ‘It looks as if he’s been strangled with his own mask! Stay there, Fluff.’

  The voice, thought Roger absurdly, was as familiar as that of a close friend’s; it was Michison’s. He could imagine the man announcing the next item, an incomparable compère with just the right ‘between you and me’ friendliness in his voice. Then he sensed a movement nearer him, and Michison went on: ‘I’ll unfasten that. Don’t you try to.’

  Roger said nothing, and the knot was untied after Michison’s nails had scratched the nape of his neck painfully. When the cloth was drawn from his head Roger closed his eyes against the bright light, catching only a glimpse of a pair of small woman’s shoes a few feet away from him.

  ‘Get up,’ said Michison.

  Roger kept his eyes closed and stood up, putting out a hand to steady himself against the chair. He opened his eyes; they watered and were filled with dust. So were his mouth and nose. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously, took a corner of the handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Gradually things took shape: Michison was standing only a couple of yards from him, frowning and with one hand clenched and half-raised. ‘Fluff’, the original of the photograph on the mantelpiece, was standing by the open door with a hand resting against it. She gave the impression of being prepared to dash away at the slightest alarm.

  Roger licked his lips and said: ‘There’s another one of us, I think.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michison, and scowled more heavily. ‘You’re a humorist, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Roger. ‘But I’m dying of thirst.’ He took out his wallet, and was relieved to find his official cards still inside. He selected one and handed it to Michison, saying: ‘It might be hard to believe, but that’s me. Could there be a drink? Preferably water?’ He looked about the room for anything to quench his appalling thirst, while Michison said in incredulous tones: ‘Chief Inspector West!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Look here—’

  ‘Fluff, get him some water, will you?’ asked Michison slowly.

  Roger, who had always believed that Michison was a pleasant fellow, and well worth knowing, grew convinced that the conception had not been false. The girl moved away quickly, after only a moment of hesitation, returning in a few seconds carrying a glass of water; some of it spilled over the edge of the glass, for her hand was unsteady.

  ‘There you are,’ she said in a weak voice. She was pretty and very feminine, the light waving hair about her head explaining her nickname.

  ‘Thanks.’ Roger swilled a little water round his mouth before swallowing, then took a deeper drink. It was cold and refreshing, and he drew a deep breath when the glass was empty. His head was clearer and he was faintly amused at Michison’s puzzled stare and the understandable apprehension of ‘Fluff’. But there were other matters, some even more important than the astonishing appearance of Michison, whom Riordon claimed to have put away.

  ‘Look here, I can explain fully,’ said Roger, ‘but first we ought to look round. When I came here I had a sergeant with me.’ He did not explain how Sloan had disappeared, and saw ‘Fluff’s’ lips widen in a silent gasp. ‘What other rooms are there?’

  ‘Fluff, stay here,’ said Michison.

  He looked very like his photograph as he treated Roger to a prolonged stare, and then led the way into the lounge hall. There were five doors leading from it, all painted black with red lines, and he opened the nearest, looking inside a tiny dining room, empty but for furniture. He tried a bedroom with the same result, but when he opened the third door, leading to another bedroom, he drew a sharp breath.

  Looking over the man’s shoulder, Roger saw Sloan.

  The sergeant was laying on his side. His knees were doubled up, his arms held over his head. The side of his head was covered with blood which had seeped onto the carpet, and for a moment Roger thought that he was dead.

  In that brief moment he saw a picture of Crummy Parker in his mind’s eye: the wound in Sloan’s head was almost identical with that from which Parker had died.

  During the next few minutes Roger warmed still more to Lionel Michison.

  The man turned, said something to Fluff, presumably to reassure her, and then rejoined Roger, who was on one knee beside Sloan’s outstretched body. Now that he was nearer Roger could see that Sloan was breathing, and when he felt the sergeant’s pulse it seemed fairly strong. The wound was ugly, and a closer inspection made Roger even more certain that it was like Parker’s; probably it had been caused by the same, or a similar, instrument.

  ‘My wife’s calling a doctor,’ Michison said.

  ‘Oh, good. I think he’ll
get over this packet,’ said Roger, straightening up. ‘I wonder if there could be some warm water, and the usual stuff?’ He lit a cigarette as he spoke, then bent down and put Sloan into a more comfortable position before making a more closer examination of the wound. His belief that the wound in Parker’s head had been virtually the same was further strengthened.

  By the time the doctor had arrived the wound was cleansed, and looked much less gruesome, while Roger had telephoned the Yard for an ambulance, photographers and fingerprint men, and had washed away the dust from the piece of coarse sacking which had been over his head.

  The usual formalities were necessary, even though Michison would probably feel rueful about it, and there seemed little need for further evidence that Riordon had made the attack. Michison heard him talking on the telephone, and Fluff stood nearby regarding Roger curiously with her great eyes. When he had replaced the receiver, Michison grimaced and said slowly: ‘You couldn’t avoid your usual performances, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Roger apologetically. ‘But I’ll guarantee that none of the men do any damage to the flat, and they’ll leave it as they found it. Meanwhile—’ he smiled a little although by no means certain how Michison would react to what he had to say – ‘something in the way of an explanation is necessary, isn’t it? What took you out tonight, when you knew I was coming?’

  ‘I knew what?’ asked Michison blankly.

  Roger stared: ‘Are you going to tell me that you didn’t know that I was due to see you at nine-fifteen?’

  ‘I hadn’t the faintest idea,’ Michison assured him warmly. ‘I couldn’t have done, anyhow. We’ve been visiting my wife’s family all the afternoon, and arrived back only a short while ago. When you heard us,’ he added. ‘Now just what is this about? I had a sergeant asking me about a man named Riordon a couple of days ago, the fellow seemed to think that I knew him. Is this connected with the same business?’