Seven Days to Death

by John Creasey

  “What do you think of the chap? Man named Elliot, isn’t it?”

  . “Yes. And he’s all right as a person, sir, affable as they come. But that’s nothing to go by.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Gideon agreed. “Well, I’m going to arrange for you and probably a couple of others to concentrate on the job; I don’t like the idea that anyone might get away with forty thousand quid.” He scratched his chin, and the stubble rasped. “Edmundsun kept calling his wife, you say. She get there in time?”

  “Ten minutes late.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “Well, pretty calm, as a matter of fact.”

  “Know what I’d do,” said Gideon thoughtfully; “I’d have a word with her as soon as possible. Don’t put anything into plain language; but just make it clear you’re sure that someone else was on this job with her husband, and that, if it wasn’t for them, he’d be alive today. If she knows anything, that might persuade her to talk. Worth trying, anyhow.”

  “I’ll fix it first thing in the morning,” Cummings promised.

  Gideon knew that he would.

  There was no garage at Gideon’s house, and he left his car at a garage nearby, then strolled toward his house, along the dimly lit street. The weather had changed with a vengeance, and he was almost too warm with his heavy topcoat and his woollen waistcoat. As he neared the house, he thought he saw someone lurking in the shadows of the doorway, and, with a caution learned over the years, he slowed down and approached carefully.

  Then he grinned.

  They were lurking figures all right, boy and girl. Prudence and a lad. Kissing. Gideon coughed loudly, saw them spring apart, saw Prudence look at him in confusion, and the youngster stand stiffly, almost to attention.

  “Mind you two don’t catch cold,” Gideon said. “Hallo, Pru. Hallo, young man.”

  “Good evening, sir!”

  “Oh, Dad, this is Raymond ...”

  Kate was alone in the kitchen; one of the boys still living at home was out, one upstairs in the attic playing with his electric train set. The two younger girls were out, too, one of them at night school, one with friends. Kate, in a royal blue dress, looked fresh and handsome and obviously pleased to see him. That did him a lot of good. Funny, to find the old affection warming up again. They weren’t demonstrative and didn’t kiss.

  “Did you-know about Raymond?” asked Gideon.

  Kate smiled. “They don’t stay young forever,” she said, “and now Pru’s finished her exams she’ll have more time for boys.” Then, obviously because she thought of the Primrose Girl and the boy in the police station cell, her smile faded. “Any news?” she asked.

  “No change,” said Gideon.

  That was at half past eight.

  Just after nine, the telephone bell rang; and Priscilla, the middle daughter, as fair as Prudence was dark, went hurrying to answer it. Gideon caught Kate’s eyes, and realized what she was hinting: that Priscilla was showing remarkable eagerness to answer the telephone.

  He raised his hands, helplessly.

  “They grow up too fast for me,” he said ruefully, and looked round at the door which Priscilla had left open. He heard her eager voice and then the flat disappointment which came into it.

  “Yes, he’s in,” she said, and called: “Dad! It’s Sergeant Jefferson, wants to speak to you.”

  Gideon, coat off, collar and tie loose and shoelaces undone, got out of his big armchair reluctantly, and strolled toward the little room where the telephone was.

  “Hallo, Jeff,” he said.

  “Thought you’d want to know this, sir,” said Jefferson. “Two more of the Millways chaps caught - Alderman and Hooky Jenkins. They were in Manchester railway yard, they’d travelled on a freight train. Almost certain that they killed that railwayman. Manchester rang through to say they’ll do everything they can to find out if this pair knows which way the others went, sir.”

  “That’s fine,” said Gideon, quietly. “Thanks for calling, Jeff.”

  Now there were four, including the worst of them.

  He wondered where Benson was.

  Soon afterward, Gideon went to bed. That coincided, although he could not have the faintest idea of the coincidence, with the first offensive move of that persistent thief, Lefty Bligh, and a younger man whom he was training in the gentle art of cracking a crib without making too much noise. Lefty used an oxyacetylene cutter of a special miniature design. They went across to the bookmaker’s door, with a fortune inside waiting for the taking.

  His companion watched and marvelled at the ease with which Lefty got the door open, dismantled the burglar alarm, and made the whole process look child’s play. Both Lefty and his apprentice went boldly inside.

  A light came on.

  “Hallo, Lefty,” a Yard detective-sergeant greeted. “Want something?”

  Lefty was one of those criminals who did not believe in violence. He looked as if he could cry. His apprentice made a run for it, but was met at the lift by another Yard man, and promptly gave up trying.

  12. Farther South

  About that time, too, Benson was staring across at the house where the young couple lived.

  He was sitting on a box close to the window of the house where he and Tisdale had taken refuge. It wasn’t furnished, and there was no comfort, but the night was much warmer, and they weren’t really cold. They’d eaten two hours before, and had enough food left for another day. They’d sat here, watching the couple sitting by the side of a fire in the house opposite, eating supper from a tray. The more they saw, the more they realized that these were newly-weds; the man couldn’t leave the girl alone, and she didn’t exactly look as if she resented it. They’d gone toward the door, about twenty minutes ago, their arms round each other; then they’d put out the downstairs light. Now, there was a light on in the upstairs front room, and Freddy was actually licking his lips.

  The girl appeared near the window.

  “What the butler saw,” Freddy muttered; “what wouldn’t I give for a chance to change places with him?” Freddy sounded as if he wasn’t feeling so good. “How about it?”

  Benson said, “You’ve waited three years, you can wait another few days. We stay here until they’re asleep, and then we go and get the car. We push it out of the garage and down the road.”

  “Okay,” Freddy said. “I hope we don’t disturb their dreams.”

  Soon, the girl came and stood by the window, with her face in the shadow. The man joined her. Suddenly, the girl stretched up and drew the curtains; she made quite a picture. Freddy swore beneath his breath, and watched shadows.

  It was twenty minutes before the light went out.

  It was another half hour, and nearly half past eleven, when Benson and Freddy left the empty house. They crept into the deserted street. Except for the odd late bird, no one was likely to be about tonight; everyone who had been to the pictures was home. Only two windows in the whole street showed a light, and there was no parked car.

  They crossed the road to the silent house.

  The drive, made of smooth cement, sloped slightly upward toward the garage. They made no sound as they reached it. Freddy examined the lock and saw that it was just a padlock with a hasp; elementary. He took out a small screwdriver which he had brought from the furnished house, and set to work on it.

  Benson watched the upstairs window and the street.

  There was no sound.

  Only a few street lamps, at intervals of fifty yards or more, gave any light, and suddenly these began to go out, one by one. The sound of metal on metal sounded very loud. Then, the padlock opened and Freddy whispered.

  “We’re okay.”

  But when they opened the garage doors, one squeaked alarmingly. Both men stood stock-still, watching the upstairs room.

  Janice
Morency, a bride of only three weeks, felt the snug warmth of her husband beside her and heard his steady, rhythmic breathing. She was just beginning to learn how quickly he could drop off; he would be wide awake one moment, glorying; and fast asleep the next. The house was very quiet. The street was quiet, too.

  The glow from the street lamps began to go out, as they always did at half past eleven.

  Then Janice heard the garage door squeak.

  She went absolutely rigid with alarm, for she knew the sound so well. She heard it every morning when Frank opened the gates, heard it every time she’ moved the door herself; there couldn’t be any mistake at all. -

  “Frank,” she whispered, “wake up. Frank!”

  For a tense moment after the door had creaked, Benson and Freddy Tisdale were as still and silent as the girl. Then Benson whispered, “Okay, get inside.”

  “Suppose ...”

  “Inside, close the door!”

  “But supposing they come ...”

  “And supposing they don’t,” Benson said flatly.

  There was just room for them to squeeze into the garage” and pull the door to; it didn’t squeak when being closed, only when being opened. They stood in the near darkness. There was a window, which showed just a glim of light, and they worked their way round toward it then stared up at the house. Benson could tell that Tisdale was more on edge than he had been at any time; some people were at their worst late at night. He didn’t watch Tisdale, only the house. If a light went on ...

  Freddy said uneasily, “We could be trapped in here.”

  “If anyone comes down to see if the door’s open, we know what to do,” Benson said “We can’t lock the door again; if he comes down he’ll find the door open, and he’ll raise the alarm anyway. Right?”

  Freddy muttered, “I suppose so.”

  Then the light went on in the front bedroom of the house.

  They could just see the window from their point of vantage, and they saw the bright light shine out. A moment later, the light got brighter; that was because the curtains were pulled back. There were shadows; and then suddenly the head of a man appeared, turned toward the garage. He could see the doors from here, but couldn’t tell whether they were locked.

  Could he?

  Benson stood quite still, his right hand touching the poultry knife.

  Frank Morency, tousled head and broad shoulders out of the window, and his wife pressing close against him at one side, saw nothing but the outline of the garage, the roof of the house next door, the gardens in the street, the dark road and slender lampposts. He shivered as wind cut along from the east, and backed inside.

  “You must have been dreaming,” he said.

  “Frank, I swear I wasn’t.”

  “Well, have a look for yourself,” he suggested, “but go and put a dressing gown on, I don’t like you appearing in public like that.” He was laughing at her!

  “But I heard the sound, I’ve heard it so often!”

  “All right, look for yourself, but —” Morency stopped abruptly, when he saw the change in his bride’s expression, slid an arm round her, squeezed, and then said, “Like me to go down and have a look round, sweetheart?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I will, like a shot,” he said.

  “If you’re sure the doors are still shut...”

  “I’m positive!”

  “Then I suppose I must have dreamed it,” Janice said.

  She didn’t really believe that; she was sure that she had heard a sound, but no longer sure that it had been the garage door. They went back to bed, where for a few minutes the warmth and the strength of his body comforted and reassured her; then he began to breathe very smoothly and rhythmically again, arid for the first time in her married life she felt a kind of loneliness.

  Soon she dozed off.

  Freddy Tisdale stood back from the hinges of the garage doors, an oilcan in his hand, thin oil smearing his fingers. He was breathing very softly, and keenly aware of Benson’s watching eyes. The bedroom light had been out for half an hour, and the street seemed absolutely deserted.

  “Try it now,” he said.

  “Okay.” Benson began to push the offending door, cautiously. When halfway open, it gave a faint squeak, but nothing like the noise it had made before. This time, no light came on.

  Soon they were wheeling the car into the street, along the road, toward the main road. With Freddy walking alongside and guiding it, and Benson behind, they pushed until they were some distance away from the Morencys’ house. Then Tisdale got in. A moment later, he exclaimed: “Our night out, Syd - he’s left the keys in!”

  Benson actually chuckled.

  They started off.

  Three hundred yards farther on, they came to a main road. They needed to turn left, for London. As they nosed out of the side turning, they looked both ways. No more than half a mile along toward Stoke, on a straight stretch of road, were several red lights, some yellow lights, and the shadowy shapes of men and cars.

  “Roadblock,” breathed Freddy Tisdale. “If we’d gone the other way ...”

  “Well, we didn’t,” Benson said flatly. “We’ll drive on the sidelights only; if there’s another block down the road they won’t see us coming so far, and we’ll have a chance to stop and run for it.”

  Freddy didn’t speak.

  With the sidelights on, casting only a faint glow on the hedges, the telegraph poles and the wires, they crawled along at twenty miles an hour. Occasionally, a car passed them; once, one came streaking up from behind, and whined past; it didn’t stop.

  Freddy knew the roads well, took the byroads, avoided the towns where the police road blocks were likely to be, and by half past five they reached the outskirts of Birmingham.

  In Birmingham, Freddy had a hideout, with a man he felt sure was safe. Or so he said.

  Gideon entered the office the next morning, a little more briskly than usual. There was no reason why he should feel in high spirits, but he did. Possibly the overnight news of the capture of two more prisoners had something to do with it. Possibly, eight hours’ solid sleep had helped; possibly, too, amused reflection on Pru’s high colour when he had come in and again when he had seen her at breakfast that morning. She had asked about William Rose, but had her own absorbing personal interests now. Gideon wondered how long she had known this Raymond, told himself that he would have to make sure that the youngster was all right, then thought reassuringly that Kate would make certain of that, as far as anyone could.

  He saw Lemaitre, alone at his desk, with the daily report in front of him.

  “Morning, Lem.”

  “Morning, George.” Lemaitre was flat-voiced, gloomy.

  “What’s your trouble?”

  “Trouble?” asked Lemaitre, and gave a laugh which had no body in it. “Nothing but ruddy trouble, if you ask me: Had a hell of a row with Fifi last night; she wanted to go out, and I wanted to stay in - George, you don’t know how lucky you are.”

  Lemaitre had graver marital troubles even than he realized; but Gideon didn’t see that it was his duty to tell him.

  “She’ll be all right tonight,” he said, soothingly.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” said Lemaitre, “sometimes I wonder if – oh, forget it. We picked up Alderman and Hooky last night, that’s something. Manchester police say there’s blood on Alderman’s clothes and under his fingernails, mixed with coal dust. We’ve got them ready for the long wait.” That prospect seemed to cheer Lemaitre up. “Twenty-nine spots of bother in London last night, and we’ve picked up five old pals who’ll be in dock this morning. Young Rose will be up at East London, of course - medical reports on him in from Smedd, in triplicate - Smedd’s a boy! Nasty job in Soho: one of the Marlborough Street regulars cut up. The risks these women take at that game
. Nasty job out at Wimbledon, too: nineteen-year-old girl going home after a dance; had a tiff with her boyfriend and she went alone. Three fellows had a go at her. Sometimes I wonder what makes men tick, I do really. She got home all right, not hurt except for a few bruises and scratches; she put up a hell of a fight. Kept her head better than a lot would, too: described one of the fellows and said he had a foreign accent. The Wimbledon police boys are checking, they think they can put their hands on the trio. Nice morning, isn’t it?”

  “If you didn’t want to know all about the seamy side, why join the police?” asked Gideon.

  He looked through the newspapers. .As he’d expected, the “negligence” at Millways was being tied up to the “negligence” at Brixton; the escapes and the prison suicide were being run together as clear indications of lowered standards at the prisons. There was a sly dig at the police for allowing a party of violent criminals to remain at large, but the capture of Alderman and Hooky won a corner in the Stop Press.

  Then Gideon read his own daily report.

  He made notes and, before he started the morning’s briefing, studied the medical reports on William Rose. One was from his family doctor, and it was a long statement; the doctor had known the Rose family for twenty-five years.

  Should be reliable.

  Gideon read - and winced.

  Pencilled in red at the side of the report were the letters N.B. Opposite this, there was the blunt statement:

  From the age of six until the age of eleven the boy showed signs of excessive, uncontrollable temper. His mother brought him to me for treatment, but this was clearly not a matter for an ordinary physician. I understand that the boy responded well to psychiatric treatment, becoming much more balanced. I questioned his mother on a number of occasions in later years, and was told that there were no further outbreaks of this particular trouble.