by John Creasey
“Anne, it—it can’t be true,” he said, and reached her and went down on his right knee in front of her. “Anne, don’t look at me like that. Anne!”
She had stopped looking at him, for her eyes were glazing over. Given a minute’s foreknowledge, Roger could have forestalled that injection and so won the full benefit of this encounter, but he had given way where Ledbetter would have held out; and no one could be surprised if Ledbetter felt that his own tactics had been wiser.
They all made a kind of tableau, which had to be broken soon. Roger broke it, moving towards the chair and the unconscious woman, and saying quite briskly: “Will you need a nurse, doctor?”
“Someone will have to stay with her; she mustn’t be alone when she comes round,” Frascatti answered.
“According to her neighbours, she hasn’t any relatives near,” Ledbetter declared.
“Better get her to a nursing home,” Roger said. “Will you fix it, Percy?” He spoke to Ledbetter, who nodded; he would arrange for the woman to go to a small nursing home in the Division, where she could be watched all the time; it would be necessary to have someone by her bedside, to take a statement when she came round. All of those things were routine, and no further word was necessary. “Mr Cartwright,” Roger went on, looking at the back of Cartwright’s head, “I’d like you to tell us why you came here tonight.”
Cartwright was almost as motionless as the woman he called Anne, but he began to get up, slowly and laboriously. He was a nice-looking ‘lad’; that word came to Roger’s mind again. He had fine grown eyes, long lashes, and a perfect complexion, the kind that a woman would dream about. Was he slightly effeminate? He was tall and carelessly dressed, giving the impression that he did not have much dress sense. He glanced round at Roger, but obviously had no desire to look away from Mrs Kindle.
Ledbetter gave a word of instruction to a man just outside, Frascatti was putting away his hypodermic syringe, and had a rather smug look. Gibson showed that gift which had helped him to get where he was; of being part of the background, without intruding at all.
“I—I was told that Anne’s – that her baby had been murdered.” He pressed a hand across his forehead, as if his head were aching badly, and went on, slowly: “I couldn’t believe it.”
“Who told you?”
“I had a telephone call.”
“Who from?”
“A woman who said she lived near here, a neighbour,” Cartwright answered.
“Do you know her name?”
“No, what the hell does her name matter? I rushed straight here to find out if it were true. I can—I can hardly believe—”
“Have you been here before tonight?” Roger interrupted.
“I just can’t believe—”
“Answer my questions at once, please,” Roger said, more in the Ledbetter tradition. “Have you been here before, tonight?”
Cartwright muttered: “I—I did just look in, yes.”
“Have you been inside this flat before, tonight?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I—I’m not sure of the exact time.”
“Tell us as nearly as you can.”
“About—about eight o’clock, I suppose,” Cartwright replied, and his voice strengthened a little, although the scared look remained. “I hoped that Anne would—would come out for the evening, but she couldn’t get a sitter-in. So I—I left.”
“Did you leave Mrs Kindle on good terms?”
Cartwright looked away.
“Did you leave her on good terms or did you have a quarrel?” demanded Roger harshly.
Ledbetter was actually nodding approval.
Cartwright said furiously: “Why are you shouting at me like that? My God, do you think I know anything about—” He broke off, staring at the unconscious woman. She was leaning forward a little, her whole body drooping. Men were approaching in the street, but whoever was in charge outside would keep them away during these vital moments. “I know nothing about it. I—good God, I wouldn’t hurt a fly! And as for Nigel—” He moistened his lips and looked round at the other men present, as if he were afraid of the accusation and the condemnation in the eyes of the men watching him. “What’s happened to everybody?” he demanded, almost wildly. “Why did Anne look at me like that?”
“Did you, or did you not, quarrel with Mrs Kindle?” Roger demanded sharply.
“We—we had a few words, that’s all.”
“So you quarrelled.”
“It—it wasn’t really a quarrel. I—I told her that she was making a slave of herself for the child, and that it was—” He broke off.
“It was what?”
“It—it was time her husband took his share of the responsibility,” Cartwright said, in a low-pitched voice. “And that’s true enough, but I didn’t harm the baby. Yet the way she looked at me …” His voice quavered and rose, then dropped away, as if he had been shocked beyond endurance. He looked pale and ill, too, muttered what might have been: “It doesn’t make any sense,” and walked to the side of the room, pressing a hand against his forehead.
Roger signalled to Ledbetter, who was at the door. An ambulance man came in, with a plain-clothes Divisional man, carrying a stretcher; that was the easy way to take Mrs Kindle out of the flat. Cartwright turned to watch, his eyes glittering as if with both pain and distress. He made a move towards Mrs Kindle as the two men lifted the stretcher, but then held back. Roger, watching him closely, knew that Gibson and Ledbetter missed nothing. Outside, the Divisional men were still searching for anything at all which might help them to prove the identity of the murderer.
Was Cartwright the man?
Ledbetter’s money was probably on him. How old was he? Only in the early twenties, Roger judged, just before he spoke again. “Mr Cartwright.”
“Yes?”
“Can you remember the exact words of the quarrel you had with Mrs Kindle tonight?”
“I’ve told you that it wasn’t a quarrel!”
“Can you give the exact words?”
“More or less, I suppose, but—”
“Have you quarrelled with her before?”
“Not—not really.”
“Have you argued about the same subject before?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in love with Mrs Kindle?”
Cartwright raised his head and looked at Roger straightly, as if with a kind of pride. He seemed to square his shoulders and to stand more erect, too.
“Yes, I am,” he answered. “And I know exactly what the neighbours think, and the kind of scandal that you are going to hear. Well, it isn’t true. I’m in love with Anne, but that’s all there is to it. We’ve never”—he hesitated, and then went on rather more quickly—“given her husband cause for divorce. Anne was too loyal to him. I believe that he goes off on these long voyages simply because he doesn’t want to be tied down to any one place or any one woman, but that didn’t make any difference to Anne. You can discount whatever you hear about that. It won’t be true.”
He said all that very well. Yet there was Ledbetter, smiling and sceptical, and Gibson, somehow in the background, and showing no reaction of any kind. Cartwright was standing upright and very tall; he must be nearly six feet.
“How did you hear about the murder of the baby?” Roger demanded.
“I’ve told you – a woman telephoned me.”
“Did she give her name?”
“I’ve told you that, too – no.”
“Didn’t you recognise her voice?”
“No, I didn’t,” answered Cartwright flatly. “I picked up the receiver, and she seemed to be out of breath. She said that Nigel had been murdered, and I ought to go and try to help Mrs Kindle. Then—”
“Did she say Mrs Kindle, or Anne?”
“Mrs Kindle.”
“When was this?”
“Half an hour or so ago – I don’t know exactly,” Cartwright answered impatiently. “I live in Ealing, and came straight here
. My car was jammed between two others and I was a hell of a time getting out, so I suppose it was nearer three-quarters of an hour ago. That’s everything I can tell you, absolutely everything.”
“Has Mrs Kindle ever suggested that she was nervous living here alone?”
“No.”
“Has anyone ever threatened the child, to your knowledge?”
“No.”
“Do you know Mr Kindle?”
Cartwright actually flushed. “I’ve met him once or twice, casually, that’s all. Anne used to work at my—at the same place as I, and I met Kindle before they were married. She kept her job on until the baby came.” He closed his eyes, and went on in a low-pitched voice, as if he were fighting to conceal his anguish: “She worshipped Nigel. God knows what will happen to her now, it’ll drive her mad. She worshipped him, and—” He broke off, with a little choking sound, but Roger did not interrupt, and the others also watched in silence. “She believed that Nigel would bring her husband home. She thought it would make all the difference to them. There never was a chance, he’s such a selfish devil, but she believed it.”
Cartwright broke off again.
Roger said: “Mr. Cartwright, I would like you to make a statement repeating all you’ve told me, and recalling the exact words of your difference of opinion with Mrs Kindle, I’ll arrange for you to go into a neighbour’s room. In the morning we shall ask you to read the statement through and, if you agree that it’s correct, sign it. Have you any objection?”
“No,” Cartwright said, and then gulped. “No, of course not. But how will that help to find the murderer?”
“The most unexpected facts often help to do that,” Roger said dryly.
Ledbetter had beckoned to a man, who came in and took instructions; a room had already been made available in the groundfloor flat. Roger watched Cartwright going off, and wasn’t surprised when Ledbetter spoke as soon as the man was out of earshot: “A nice piece of acting.”
“Think so?” asked Roger.
“Don’t say it fooled you?” Ledbetter scoffed. “Cartwright knew that we would hear about the quarrel, and knew it was no use keeping out of sight, so he did the obvious thing – came and brazened it out. You can’t need any telling that the woman thought he did it: she practically accused him as soon as she set eyes on him.” Ledbetter hotted up and his voice grew harsher when Roger gave him no encouragement. “That’s why she wouldn’t give his name and address. She knew who the killer was the moment she realised what had happened. No wonder she went off into screaming hysteria. This is one of the quickies, Handsome.”
“Could be,” Roger conceded, and rubbed the tip of his nose. Unexpectedly he grinned, and that lit up his face, so that he fully justified the familiar nickname. His fair hair was wavy, and the grey in it hardly showed; he looked no more than in the middle thirties, although he was now a senior officer at the Yard, and in the middle forties. His grey eyes glinted as if he expected Ledbetter to do battle. “Supposing I leave the chores to you, and we go over them in the morning. If it’s cut and dried, there’s no need for me to waste my beauty sleep.”
Ledbetter looked at him suspiciously: “What’s on your mind?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Gibson asked unexpectedly. “Cartwright might have had reason to hate this kid, and if he lost his temper he might even have choked the life out of it. But as far as we know he didn’t have any motive for killing the Shaw baby last week, did he? We’ll have to find out if he had the opportunity. The killing was done the same way, wasn’t it? Baby suffocated in its own cot, with its own pillow. It looks to me as if the same man did each job, or one imitated the first man’s method.”
Ledbetter watched Gibson throughout all this, and then said without the slightest rancour: “Tell you what, Handsome, stay and do the job with us. You might spot something we’ll miss. If Gibby’s right and this is the second job by the same man, then there might be others. Don’t want to take any chances of concentrating on the wrong chap. You staying?”
“You try to keep me away,” Roger said, and although he was smiling, there was a glint in his eyes. “Two baby murders in seven days is two too many. You know how contagious these things seem to get. Now, where’s this cot?”
“Wouldn’t care to have a word with the newspaper chaps before we start, would you?” Ledbetter suggested. “I don’t know how they do it, but they know you’re here.”
“Can’t you see ’em?”
“You’re the glamour boy.”
“What line have you taken with them so far?” Roger asked. ‘Glamour boy’ from some would be a taunt; from Ledbetter it was simply fair comment.
“Just told ’em to wait.”
“You’d better come with me,” Roger said. “Gibson, get out that report on the Shaw baby murder last week, and compare it item by item with this one.” He spoke as he moved, with a kind of restrained briskness, as if he could not wait to get busy.
On the right was a small room, crowded with men; in here was a blue cot, on the walls were pictures of teddy bears and rabbits, of birds and puppies and kittens. A light flashed. He caught a glimpse of a shawl on the floor, with a chalk mark round it, as he went past, leading the way downstairs.
At least the mother was quiet and resting now.
The next job, probably the key one, was to talk to the Press. This was a case where the newspapers would take guidance, if they were offered the right angle for them. Certainly he did not want a big scare. Within a few miles of this spot there must be a thousand young mothers and a thousand infants in arms. Next morning, each mother would know fear even when they read the bare outline of the case.
If a psychopath were running loose, they would have plenty of cause for fear.
Should he say just enough to let them think that this baby’s killer was already caught, even though that would be putting the public good against the individual’s. But would it really be to the public good? If there were a killer on the prowl, every parent should be encouraged to take excessive care, and so make sure all young babies were closely guarded.
“What’s on your mind?” Ledbetter asked as they neared the closed front door. There was a background of noise, as of many people talking, of engines running and of people walking.
“Can you remember a case like this where two have been attacked on the same night?” Roger inquired.
“No,” answered the Divisional man promptly.
“Thanks,” said Roger, and opened the door to a sea of faces, to sudden silence and, abruptly, to the flashing of photographers’ lights.
Chapter Three
Tactics
Most of the reporters, and there were a dozen or more, were crowded to the right of the front door, flanked by two uniformed policemen who were there to send onlookers into the road, which was virtually blocked. The flashlights showed the faces of the men and two women in the group, as well as lighting up the hundreds of others, glinting on startled eyes, shining on faces which looked ghostly white. Someone near the front of the crowd called out: “There’s Handsome West!”
Roger ignored that, and crossed to the newspaper reporters; the years had taught him the unwisdom of being brusque or awkward with them. He gave a quick, businesslike smile, particularly for a tall, lean man, Spendlove, of the Globe which had a four-million daily circulation; there was a tendency for the popular newspapers to follow the Globe’s line if they had no axe to grind of their own.
“Got anything for us, Superintendent?” a man asked.
“Can you tell us how the child was killed?” inquired a short, dumpy woman wearing a scarf wound round her neck and flung carelessly over her right shoulder. She was Martha Wise, known as Aunt Martha, and nearly as influential as Spendlove. Her bobbed, iron-grey hair was bare, and she looked rather like an untidy Ledbetter.
“Made no arrest yet?” asked Spendlove.
Roger hesitated, looked at him, and then said slowly and as if there was some uncertainty: “No, we haven’t.” Then almost at once he
went on more quickly, as if to cover a tactical error. “The baby was suffocated with its own pillow. There’s no doubt about that. It must have been over in a few seconds. No injuries except faint swelling of the lips, caused by pressure. So you needn’t run the beast-on-the-prowl line.” He flashed his grin again. “And if any of you quote me, I’ll never talk to a reporter again! Just quote some anonymous policeman.”
Spendlove said: “All right, Handsome. Any known connection with the Shaw baby murder last week?”
Roger was decisive.
“None that we know of, except that the same method was used, and that doesn’t necessarily mean much. Imitative crimes are pretty common. We’re checking, of course, but so far we haven’t had any indication that the same man did both jobs.”
“So you really think you’ve got the chap for this one?” said Spendlove, and the others were obviously willing to let him act as spokesman. “Who is it? This woman’s lover?”
“Lover?” echoed Roger.
Spendlove grinned. “Don’t play innocent, Handsome. The chap who came bursting in just now but hasn’t come bursting out. He’s the boy friend. The neighbours told us that – name of Cartwright, too. In fact I could tell you the name of the neighbour who found him in the telephone book and phoned him to come. She thought it only right that he should come to the help of his distressed paramour! Did he kill the baby?”
“He’s making a statement,” Roger said. “Don’t push me too hard.”
“Anything about the husband?” asked the grey-haired woman. “Are you going to try to get him back from South America?”
“Not up to me to decide, but I shouldn’t think so,” Roger said. “He can’t help us in our inquiries. If the woman’s advisers think it will help they’ll tell the shipping company, and it will be up to them. Probably depend on how near port the husband’s ship is. We’re not likely to make any request. What’s the name of this neighbour, did you say?”
Spendlove grinned. “I didn’t say. She’s Mrs Harris, next door but one. Thanks, Handsome.” He turned away, to get to the nearest telephone, and the other reporters seemed to vanish, each to the private house where he had arranged to use the telephone, or to the kiosks round the corner, or to radio-equipped cars. It was done, and Roger turned back into the house.