by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Case of the Innocent Victims
First published in 1959
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1959-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755135350 9780755135356 Print
0755138686 9780755138685 Kindle
0755137019 9780755137015 Epub
0755154762 9780755154760 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller – was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
Woman in Despair
“Mad or not,” Gibson said, “I’d string ’em up. And you needn’t give me any of that ‘our job’s to catch ’em, not to worry about what happens to them afterwards’. First I’d give them the cat, and then I’d string ’em up.”
Superintendent Roger West was walking beside him, along a narrow street which led to Bank Terrace. It was quicker to go this way, leaving Roger’s car behind them, than to drive right up to the house. A crowd had already gathered; newspapermen were there in their dozens; and probably there was an ambulance, certainly several Divisional police cars.
The footsteps of the two large men echoed. It was dark overhead, but the fluorescent lamplight was good, so that these men of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard could see each other clearly. Roger, an inch the taller and perhaps an inch the broader, did not actually smile; his lips curved in a sardonic way which Gibson was getting to know well.
“I don’t care how much you blow off steam with me,” he said mildly, “but don’t let the newspaper chaps hear you talk like that.”
“Probably every one of them will be screaming what I’m saying from the headlines,” Gibson retorted.
“Let ’em – so long as they don’t quote a copper,” Roger said.
Just ahead was a policeman, quite short in spite of his helmet. He was blocking the path, and shone his flashlight into their faces as if to make quite sure who they were.
“Superintendent West?”
“Yes.”
“This way, sir.”
“Thanks,” Roger said.
They stepped through a narrow gateway into a small, narrow garden. Ahead of them was the back of the long terrace of tall houses, with oblongs of light showing many windows. At the house to which the garden belonged every window was ablaze with light, and shadows moved against the curtains of one on the second floor.
“There’s another officer on duty at the back door, sir,” their guide said.
“Thanks.” Roger nodded, and led the way – but as he saw the pale light which showed the silhouette of a policeman against an open door, the quiet was pierced by a sharp, high-pitched scream.
The sound went through Roger; involuntarily, he stopped. Gibson bumped into him. They stared up at the window where the shadows were, and suddenly these became much darker. The shape of a woman appeared against the bottom pane, there was a squeak of sound, and the window shot up.
A woman appeared.
There was just enough light to reveal her face, but not to see the awful expression on it; that was left to the men’s imagination. She was screaming, as if her mouth were wide open and she could not stop. For a moment it looked as if she would throw herself out.
“Why the hell doesn’t someone stop her?” Gibson exclaimed.
Another shadow appeared against the window. The woman seemed to be struggling, and her screaming fell away to a gasping sound. The hands and the arms of a man they could not see were at her shoulders, restraining her.
“All right,” Roger said, and turned towards the back door.
“First left, and then right, sir,” the second constable said.
“Thanks. How long has this been going on?”
“Twenty minutes or so, sir, on and off.”
“Know the woman – what’s her name?”
“Mrs Kindle, sir. I don’t exactly know her, but I’ve often seen her, wheeling the—” The man broke off.
“Hmm,” said Roger. “So this is your beat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll want a full report on everything you know about Mrs Kindle, her neighbours, husband, friends – the lot,” Roger said. “Tell the chap at the garden gate, will you? And put it round the station. Some of you may be having a late night.”
“If it would help to get the devil who did that job, we’d work all night for a month.”
“Sure you would,” said Roger, and nodded.
He stepped into the kitchen of the ground-floor flat in the house, which had four floors and four flats altogether. There was a faint smell of cooking, a little stale but not really unpleasant, and there was also a slight smell of gas. A light shone in a passage which led to the left, and another uniformed policeman stood at the foot of a flight of stairs. The front door, leading to the crowds, was shut, and doubtless other men were on duty on the porch, to make sure that no one could slip through. The only sound seemed to be that of a woman, crying. In the bright landing light, Gibson was looking pale and angry. That didn’t matter, provided it did not destroy his judgment. He had been recently promoted to Chief Inspector’s rank at the Yard, and had come originally from this Division – AS. That was why Roger had brought him on this investigation. Gibson was in the early forties, and last year his fourth son had been born. In the same year, his second son had died; it wasn’t surprising that Gibson felt keenly about the suffering of the woman upstairs.
For her child, her infant son, had died only a few hours ago.
Finding the murderer was only one problem; one to flash across the headlines of the newspapers, to rumble about the Yard, to be tapped along the teletype machines and winged along the wires – all these noises gradually becoming fainter until the horror of this night was forgotten except in the heart and the mind of the mother, and perhaps of the father, who was away at sea.
The mother would have to face the greater part of this burden on her own.
Gibson also knew that.
It was a good thing for a detective to have a soft spot, to feel keenly, to hate the men he was after, but a bad thing if it warped his judgment or influenced his actions. Although this case would reach its peak soon, and then gradually fade, its influences on Gibson might last for a long time, and so affect the dozens of cases he would investigate every year, the hundreds in the course of his service at the Yard. It was important to try to help this mother, and to find the killer of a four-month old baby; it was vital to put Gibson right if he showed signs of going wrong.
They went up a flight of narrow stairs, Roger in the lead. The door of a flat was closed and there was no light at the sides. There was plenty of light above their heads, for the front door of the bereaved woman’s flat was open. As Roger and Gibson reached the landing, they saw two uniformed policemen and, beyond, three plain-clothes men. One of them was on his knees and using, of all things, a large magnifying glass. The crying was coming from a room beyond.
A thickset man of medium height came hurrying from there. He had a chunky face, very light blue eyes, and a briskness and lightness of tread which was somehow surprising. He wore a well-cut and well-pressed suit of pale grey; his iron-grey hair was cut very close. He thrust out his hand, and said: “You didn’t lose any time.”
“Tried not to,” Roger said, and looked towards the door of the room from which the man had come. “Has she seen a doctor?”
“Going to have a sedative in five minutes,” the other said, and nodded to Gibson. “Hallo, Gibby, hope you don’t try to run the Yard as you tried to run AS.” There was no spite in the words. “Before you see the mother, Handsome, there are one or two little things it might be helpful to know. Her husband’s somewhere off the coast of South America, and even if he were allowed to fly back from the nearest port, it would be several days before he could get here. And there’s another man in her life. According to what I’ve been able to find out from neighbours, this other chap wants her to get a divorce, but she refuses because of the baby.”
“My God!” exclaimed Gibson.
“Handsome will soon start telling you not to jump to conclusions, so I’ll say it for him,” the thickset man said. He was Ledbetter, the Superintendent of the Division. “That’s why I’ve kept questioning her a bit, tried to find out if this other fellow had been around tonight.”
“Has he?”
“She just goes into hysterics every time I ask.”
“Better give her a rest,” Roger advised. “Sent someone for this chap?”
“Haven’t got his address yet; we only picked up the information from a neighbour,” Ledbetter answered. “But we’re digging.”
“Go deep,” said Roger dryly.
All policemen, even leading members of the Criminal Investigation Department, could be classified, and Ledbetter’s classification was ‘hard’. He would conduct an investigation and deal with witnesses coldly and harshly, and almost to a point of cruelty. He knew that this was never approved, and had learned to make excuses for any apparent excesses. In fact, he didn’t go over the line into third degree, and apart from the one hard streak, he was genial and easy to get along with.
He had been forcing his questions too hard on the mother, believing that if he kept the pressure up long and severely enough, he would make her break down and talk of anything she knew. That might even be justified, if she knew anything to help.
Roger went into the next room.
This was the living-room, with its window, closed now, overlooking the back garden. The curtains were thrust to one side, as they had been when Roger had seen what had happened. Two detectives and a small man were in the room; the small man was almost certainly the doctor. Roger didn’t recognise him. He was a striking-looking man, sharp-featured, with dark, glossy hair; and he looked annoyed.
The mother was sitting in a chair, silent now, head resting on the back of the chair, hands clutching the arms, eyes closed. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face blotchy, and yet in spite of all that, her good looks showed through. Her hair was fair and fluffy, and looked as if she had just combed and brushed it. She was breathing hard through her parted lips, and quivering a little.
She had quite a figure, and a pale-blue twin set was stretched tight across her thrusting bosom.
The little man asked abruptly: “Are you Superintendent West?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve been as patient as I can be,” the man said sharply. “I am Dr Frascatti, and I was asked not to give Mrs Kindle a sedative until you’d had a chance to speak to her. But I cannot allow any further questioning, no matter how well-intentioned or how necessary you regard it.”
Ledbetter had really rubbed him up the wrong way.
“I needn’t be two minutes,” Roger said placatingly. “If this were the only case of its kind we wouldn’t have pushed so hard, but it’s the second in a week, Dr Frascatti, and—”
“You cannot bring the children back.”
“If we find the right man we might save a third,” Roger answered mildly, and Frascatti seemed momentarily abashed. The woman had not opened her eyes, and had taken no notice of Roger. She didn’t when he turned to her and said: “Mrs Kindle, will you give us the address of your friend, Mr Cartwright?”
She did not answer, and did not open her eyes. Frascatti had opened a small box from his case, and was taking out a hypodermic syringe. A small bottle with a sealed top stood close to his bag. In a minute, he would have the syringe loaded, and would jab; a few minutes after that the woman would get a respite from her grief; but only a respite.
“Mrs Kindle,” Roger said matter-of-factly, “would you like us to get into radio communication with your husband, and have him fly home?”
Mrs Kindle’s eyes opened so quickly that it was startling. They were big and blue, wet with tears and dull with shock, but a glint showed in them as she exclaimed: “No!”
“We could arrange it, if you like.”
“No!” she cried. “No, don’t fetch John. Don’t fetch him, he—”
“All right, Mrs Kindle. What did you say Mr Cartwright’s address was?”
She stared at him, the glint fading from her eyes and the dullness coming back. She did not close her eyes again, but obviously she did not intend to say a word. Ledbetter had a half grin, a kind of ‘I-told-you-so’ look about him. The doctor held the syringe poised. Roger stood back and motioned to him, and watched as he pushed up the sleeve of Mrs Kindle’s left arm.
“This won’t hurt, Mrs Kindle,” Frascatti soothed. “Just a slight prick, that’s all, and you’ll be asleep within a few minutes.” He rubbed spirit on to the fleshy part of the arm just above the elbow, and jabbed; he was swift and competent, and the woman hardly flinched. “That’s all you have to worry about,” he reassured her, and there was an expression almost of triumph in his face when he looked at Ledbetter.
The woman closed her eyes.
It was easier to understand Ledbetter’s attitude now, and even to share his feeling that the woman knew more about the murder of the child than anyone would like to think. But it was too late to take advantage of that; it had been when Roger had arrived.
Before he could turn away, there came a sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, including those of a man running with swift, urgent steps; no policeman was likely to show such wild haste. Roger turned towards the door and, as he did so, saw the woman’s eyes open wide, saw the wa
y she gripped the arms of her chair and tried to get up. In a few seconds she would be unconscious, and she knew it; but in this moment she did not want the promised respite, and her eyes were glaring.
A man said heavily: “I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go any further. If you’ll give me your name I’ll ask the Superintendent.”
“Then hurry, don’t just stand there,” a man ordered hotly. “My name’s Cartwright, I’m a friend of Mrs Kindle. And I want to know what’s happened. I insist on knowing.”
Ledbetter looked startled, too, and Mrs Kindle’s expression was one of real alarm. But she could not get up, and the doctor held one shoulder, Gibson the other, to restrain her. Roger reached the door in two strides, and called: “Let Mr Cartwright come in.”
A policeman stood aside hastily. Cartwright, who was at the foot of the flight of steps immediately below the landing, came running up; a tall, nice-looking lad – lad was the word which occurred to Roger. His hair was unruly, his collar and tie looked as if they had been hurriedly fastened.
Roger stood aside, and then watched the face of Cartwright and the woman as they set eyes on each other.
Chapter Two
Guilt?
The difficulty was to watch them both; but the woman’s expression seemed to freeze, and did not change from moment to moment. The man’s did. He stopped moving, when he saw Mrs Kindle. He formed a name: “Anne,” but it was little more than a whisper, and he gave the impression that he was choking. At first he looked terribly concerned, but now shock touched his eyes, perhaps bewilderment, too, and even horror. He didn’t move.
Anne Kindle tried to moisten her lips, but it seemed as if she could not. Her eyes were so heavy that they actually closed once, and she forced them open again; Frascatti’s injection really carried a punch. She no longer made any attempt to get out of her chair, and Gibson took his hand away from her shoulder.
Then Cartwright moved again.