The Case of the Innocent Victims

by John Creasey

  “What on earth—” Maddison began, only to stop as if he realised that he wasn’t doing very well.

  His wife answered: “No, I haven’t.” Now there was no doubt of the alarm which showed in her blue eyes. “He hasn’t come here, has he? He’s not—” She broke off, as her voice rose to screaming point.

  “If my nephew had been here I would have informed the police immediately,” Maddison said coldly. “Hilda, I should go upstairs. I will deal with Mr West.” He sounded rather like a headmaster knowing that he had a tough customer to handle. “I won’t be long.”

  “Have you seen Mr Cartwright this week?” Roger asked the wife.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I—” She moved suddenly, coming down the stairs, and demanded tensely: “Why haven’t you found him? Why are you letting him run loose? Don’t you know that he’s—”

  “Hilda!” rapped Maddison.

  She flashed those beautiful blue eyes on him. She was much closer to Roger now, her lips were parted, her hands were clenched, and for a moment it looked as if she were going to allow Maddison to make her keep quiet. But in a high-pitched voice she went on: “I won’t be silenced like a little girl. Roy is ever so dangerous. You know as well as I do. It’s a wicked thing that the police haven’t caught him.”

  Roger said swiftly: “We can’t catch him while his friends and relations are protecting him, Mrs Maddison.”

  “West, if you—” Maddison began savagely.

  “Edward! Is that true?” Hilda Maddison swung round on her husband, and rushed at him in such a way that it looked as if she would strike him. “Are you hiding Roy? If you are, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Hilda, this man is deliberately trying to upset you,” Maddison asserted, and he gave a sharp impression that he was fighting for composure. “I would like you to go upstairs, and I will join you in a very few minutes.”

  “I won’t go until I know whether you’re hiding Roy!”

  Maddison looked at her very straightly, and said: “No, my dear. I am not hiding Roy. I have not seen or heard from him since the day before yesterday. This man is trying to make you believe circumstances which are not true. Now, please, go upstairs.”

  She looked like a little girl, except that her figure was not that of a girl. When she turned it was with a kind of considered seductiveness, as if she could not resist flaunting her body. Slowly, she went upstairs. Maddison waited until she had disappeared, and then turned to Roger. He was really a strikingly handsome man, and the glitter in his eyes and the set of his jaw gave him more than arrogance; it gave him a look of power.

  “I shall report your disgraceful behaviour to the Home Secretary first thing in the morning,” he said icily. “Now, if you have any legitimate business with me, send for an assistant. I do not intend to answer any questions without a witness. You have men outside, watching. You are creating the impression that there are reasons to suspect me of complicity in some crime. It is tantamount to defamation of character, and I warn you that—”

  “Don’t talk like a bloody fool,” Roger said roughly. “I’m not having the house watched because you might be hiding Cartwright. I’m having it watched because Cartwright or someone else might come and choke the life out of your son. Mr Maddison, you once showed interest in one of your employees, now a Mrs Anne Graham. Have you seen her since she was married?”

  “What the devil do you mean, sir?”

  “I’m asking a simple question.”

  Maddison hesitated for what seemed a long time, and then answered: “I have not.”

  “Have you seen Mrs Shaw, a Miss Joyce Barber before she was married, in recent months?” That was a long shot.

  This time there was a shorter pause, and Maddison answered more quietly: “No. What makes you ask these questions?”

  “Mr Maddison, I am a police officer carrying out his duty, and in the course of it I come across a great deal of information. I never divulge the source of it unless it is necessary to in the interests of justice. I have reason to believe that from time to time you have made advances to certain young women on the staff of Maddisons, including Miss Barber, Miss Blythe, now Mrs Kindle—”

  “Are you trying to suggest that I have been associated with the mothers of these dead babies?” Maddison demanded, and he went pale.

  Roger simply nodded.

  He heard a faint sound at a door upstairs, and guessed that Maddison’s wife was at it. He could not be sure whether she had heard her husband, whose voice was very low-pitched. Maddison seemed oblivious of everything except Roger, as he went on: “Yes, I was interested in these girls. That is no crime, I know nothing whatever about the murder of these children. I don’t believe my nephew does, either.”

  Then the door opened and Maddison’s wife came downstairs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cause for Hate?

  The intrusion was exactly what Roger wanted. The woman would be far easier to question than Maddison, and now there would be no keeping her out of the picture. Many people would blame him for playing on a mother’s fears, but Ledbetter would approve; and there was far more at stake than this one woman’s peace of mind.

  Maddison said in a low-pitched voice, close to Roger’s ear: “If you don’t put her mind at rest about my nephew, I’ll—”

  “Stop whispering!” Hilda called as she reached the hall. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling with anger. “I want to know the truth. I don’t care about these other women – you didn’t marry them – but I don’t believe that you’ve been telling me the truth about Roy. I believe you know that Roy’s gone mad. Did you know?” She spun round towards Roger. “Did you know that Roy tried to stop our marriage? Did you know that my son will inherit everything he thought he was going to inherit? Go on, tell me. Did you know how he hated me and my child? Did you know?”

  Now was the opportunity to get Maddison on his side, if he were innocent; and if he were involved in the murders, no harm would come now by pretending to believe what he had said.

  Roger said, very quietly: “Mr Maddison has told us enough to warn us, Mrs Maddison.”

  Hilda looked astonished. “He has?”

  Maddison moistened his lips, gulped, and for the first time looked really ill.

  Roger said easily: “In a case of divided loyalties, it isn’t always easy to do the wise thing, but Mr Maddison succeeded.” That kind of corny statement would impress this woman, and he saw the sudden delight with which she smiled at Maddison. Then with almost embarrassing abandon she flung herself at her husband, pressed her lovely body against his, kissed him on the mouth, and cried: “Oh, Teddy, you darling!”

  A minute later, she waved from the top of the stairs. In that moment she reminded Roger of little Mrs Graham; she had the same kind of radiance. Now he glanced about him, at the luxury of panelled walls, thick carpets, beautiful pictures, and he contrasted it with the frugal simplicity of Alice Graham’s home.

  Maddison said: “Come this way, please,” and led the way into a drawing-room of green and gold, beautifully furnished in eighteenth century French style, the kind of room in which Janet would hesitate to sit down, in case she spoiled something. Maddison went to a magnificent cabinet which had panelled paintings on the front, opened it, and revealed an array of bottles and glasses. “What will you have, Mr West?”

  “Whisky and soda, please,” Roger said.

  Maddison poured out two; his own perhaps a little stronger than Roger’s. He handed one to Roger, said: “To your success,” and drank deeply. He was pale, and obviously badly shaken by both disclosures. He moistened his lips and looked steadily enough into Roger’s eyes. Whatever he wanted to say was proving difficult to utter. “I don’t know your motives, but I’m grateful for the reassurance that you gave my wife,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

  Roger sipped, then said briskly: “All I want is a child murderer. I don’t want to cause domestic trouble here or anywhere else. How long has your nephew resented your marriage?” />
  “From the time it was first mooted, three years ago.”

  “Is it true that your infant son will inherit a great deal that would otherwise have gone to Mr Cartwright?”

  “Yes.”

  “How seriously will that affect Mr Cartwright’s future?”

  “He is never likely to become chairman and certainly will never be chief shareholder of the company.”

  “Did he show especial resentment after your son was born?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he threaten the child?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Maddison answered, “but he was heard on several occasions to say that he wished the child had never been born.”

  “Who heard him?” Roger demanded.

  “My wife and I, on at least two occasions,” Maddison answered, “and he once said the same thing in the hearing of my general manager.”

  “Ramsbottom?”

  “Yes.”

  Roger made a mental note to check that with the manager, as he went on: “Do you know where your nephew is now?”

  “No.”

  “How did he get out of the warehouse?”

  “I understand that he hid among carpets in a van leaving for deliveries to the docks.”

  “Who told you?”

  Maddison wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  “The dispatch foreman, a man named Corrissey.”

  “Did he help your nephew to escape?”

  “Yes,” answered Maddison, and now he seemed to be on the point of collapse. “Mr West, Corrissey has been in my employ for nearly thirty years. He began here as a boy. He is a hunchback, as you may know, and consequently has certain disabilities, and but for his work here he might have had a very difficult life. He was very grateful, and devoted to the family. When my nephew went to the warehouse and asked for sanctuary, Corrissey gave it to him out of his deep loyalty. He assumed I would wish it, but did not tell me until afterwards. Apparently Roy spent most of the night in one of the vans, and was admitted to the warehouse when Corrissey opened it first thing in the morning. Corrissey gave him food, too.”

  Maddison dropped into a chair, and wiped his forehead again.

  “Why did he leave?” Roger asked sharply.

  “Corrissey told me that he had been cooped up in a small storeroom most of the day, because people were always coming in and out, left it to stretch his legs, and was seen by one of your men.”

  Roger felt his heart thumping; this was as near as he had yet got to word of Gibson.

  “What happened then?” he asked.

  “Corrissey says that he tripped your man up and rolled him in a carpet to give Roy time to escape. Then Corrrissey”—Maddison gulped—”then he panicked. He realised that he had committed a criminal offence, and he sent your man out – still rolled in a carpet – to the docks. When I heard this I told Corrissey to release him immediately, but Corrissey says that he had already escaped. I am well aware that I should have reported him at once, Mr West, but it seemed cruel to punish a man for his loyalty – and – well, I did nothing.”

  Roger stared at him coldly, and said: “Which docks?”

  “The East London.”

  “May I use your telephone?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Roger lifted the receiver, dialled the Yard, and gave orders for the East London docks to be watched, and for Corrissey to be picked up. He replaced the receiver, and said in a flat voice: “That kind of loyalty can get you into serious trouble. Now that we’re alone – were these girl employees of yours your mistresses?”

  “No!” Maddison exclaimed.

  “None of them?”

  Maddison said stubbornly: “I don’t have to answer personal questions of that nature. I know nothing of the murders. That is all that matters.”

  “You think your nephew does?”

  “You are putting words into my mouth,” Maddison protested. “I cannot believe Roy—”

  “If he’s innocent, why did he run away?”

  “I have no idea,” said Maddison.

  “Who do you think is threatening your own son?”

  “I have no idea about that either.”

  “Do you feel the slightest danger for your own son?”

  “Of course I do,” Maddison replied sharply. “But I have perfectly capable and trustworthy servants and now that your men are watching there should be no need to worry unduly. Unfortunately my wife is very emotional, and she knows how Roy feels. They have never got on well together. She is passionately devoted to our child, and I find her panic quite understandable.”

  “Hasn’t she greater reason for fear than you’ve told me?”

  “I don’t think so. These telephone calls are hellish; but brutes who get a kick out of making others suffer do exist.”

  “Yes,” agreed Roger, and added sharply: “But this man wants you and your wife to suffer, not just anyone. Have you any enemies?”

  “I know of none.”

  “Has Mr Cartwright?”

  “I believe that the husband of Mrs Kindle has grounds for disliking him, but I’ve heard of no one else.”

  “Have you any reason to believe any other person has cause to hate your wife or you?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Have you ever given these young women cause to hate you?”

  “No!”

  “Did you put any of them with child?” Roger demanded, and was ready to withdraw that question if Maddison protested. But the other man seemed beyond anger.

  “No, I did not,” he said hoarsely. “There was an association between Miss Helen Osborn and myself, but it ended before my marriage.” He was very pale.

  “Have you any idea where Miss Osborn is?” Roger demanded. “She took my man round, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did,” answered Maddison. “I haven’t seen her since. I assume that she felt the same sense of loyalty as Corrissey, and preferred not to be questioned. I can tell you nothing more, Mr West; nothing at all.”

  Roger decided not to try to squeeze more out of the man; he could think over all he had said, and come back soon, primed with considered questions. He said good-night, and went out.

  The man watching in the garden moved forward as Roger came along the path. The rain had stopped and the moon was up, so that the garden and the nearby house showed vaguely. A long way off a car passed at speed, and in the distance there were the red and green lights of a high-flying aircraft.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “I think so. I shouldn’t be too surprised if Cartwright turns up.”

  “I’ve a walkie-talkie radio here, sir, and if there’s any cause for anxiety I’ll call the station.”

  “Fine,” said Roger.

  He got into the car, but did not drive away immediately. He switched on the radio, and checked with the Yard. The cap left behind by the assailant of Alice Graham’s baby had not been identified, but short, dark hair and tiny pieces of dandruff had been taken from it. The footprint carried no helpful mark. There was no news from the docks or of Corrissey.

  “Are you getting the cap size checked?” asked Roger.

  “It’s seven and a quarter, sir. Cartwright’s head size.” And Cartwright had dark hair.

  “Is there any report of a scuffle near the spot where the cap was found?”

  “No, sir.”

  It was a narrow-peaked cloth cap. There was no wind tonight, and it was difficult to think how it could have been dislodged except in a scuffle – or deliberately. If it were Cartwright’s, could it have been thrown down, to point at him?

  “Anything else?”

  “The man May, who works with Corrissey, swears he didn’t see anything. He knows about Cartwright, but says that Corrissey sent him out when Cartwright was in the dispatch room.”

  “Where is May now?”

  “At the Division, sir.”

  “Tell them I’m going to talk to him,” Roger said.

  Bert May looked tired to a poin
t of exhaustion and more cretinous than ever, but there was nothing wrong with him, as far as Roger could judge, except that he had been dominated by Corrissey. He swore that he had not seen Gibson or the Osborn girl at all, and had no idea where they had gone. Corrissey, he said, had sent him on an errand, and there was no sign of trouble when he had returned.

  “Better let him go,” Roger said. “Watch every move he makes, in case Corrissey tries to get at him.”

  “Tell you one thing,” the Divisional man said. “Gibby, Cartwright, and this Osborn girl have all vanished. Must be a junk-hole somewhere.”

  Roger grunted.

  It was after midnight when he reached home. All the lights were out. He left the car outside the garage, in case he needed it in a hurry, and went in. He was used to moving about quietly so as not to disturb Janet; nothing would disturb the boys. He stifled a yawn as he went to the kitchen. There were some sandwiches, but he did not feel hungry, just nibbled at one, and left the others under the dish. He kept yawning as he went upstairs. Janet did not stir when he went into the bedroom, and for once he was sorry; he would have liked to talk. He undressed in the light of a street lamp and the moon, and got into bed. He stretched out, with the warmth of Janet’s body by him, and told himself that this was going to be one of the few nights when he could not get off to sleep. It was not only the baby-killer, it was Gibson. And that girl. And the fact that all the bereaved mothers had worked for Maddisons.

  “God!” he exclaimed and sprang out of bed, oblivious of Janet, who started up. He ran downstairs to the telephone, yanked the receiver off, and as soon as he was on to the Yard he said: “Urgent job to get started tonight, even if it means dragging people out of bed. We’ve got to find out if there are any more ex-Maddison employees with young children. The manager, Ramsbottom, is most likely to give information. Don’t let him or anyone else put you off. We want details of girls who left to get married, and …”