by John Creasey
It was ten minutes before he went back to bed, had a reassuring word with Janet, and dropped off to sleep.
It was half-past six next morning when a Dutch seaman, emptying a bucket of swill over the side of a freighter registered at Amsterdam, saw the body floating in the water. He knew what it was at once, and stared for a few moments in a kind of awed fascination. Then he rushed to wake the Master. Within two minutes, the River Police had been informed, and a launch arrived alongside the Dutch vessel. The body had floated into a small backwater, which was littered with refuse – cabbage, orange peel, apple cores, paper, everything likely to be thrown overboard from the ships which used London’s river.
Using a boathook, one of three policemen pulled the body towards the side of the small boat. It was heavy, and floating face downwards. When it was drawn alongside, another man leaned over and, expertly, the body was brought into the boat. The crew of the Dutch vessel, three dockers, and a small boy were fascinated spectators of all this, and there was a sigh from them all when the body actually flopped into the bottom of the police launch.
The policemen recognised Gibson.
Roger was told the moment he reached the Yard, just after nine o’clock. He went straight upstairs to the laboratory, where Timms, the pathologist on duty, had a report on his desk. The autopsy would be carried out later in the day, but Gibson’s clothes were here, and had already been examined.
“The one thing that’s certain is that there were some carpet hairs on them,” the pathologist said. “I would say they were from an Indian carpet but I couldn’t swear to it. Look.” He pointed out a number of long, hairy threads which lay on a sheet of white plastic. “One red, one brown, one blue, one green – a multi-coloured carpet all right. There are hairs like these in the turn-ups of the trousers, in the pockets, and down the neck, as if he had been rolled up in a carpet. There were more in the shoes than anywhere else, too. I’d say that he was rolled up in a carpet, that he suffocated to death, and then his body dropped into the river. As soon as the autopsy’s done, I’ll confirm all that.”
There was nothing to do but wait, and plenty to keep Roger busy. He studied all reports on Maddison, Cartwright, Hilda Maddison, Helen Osborn and the bereaved mothers. All of these young women had been approached by Maddison, but another report said that several others had, too.
“Bit of a snag,” Evans remarked sourly. “Looks like it. We want to find anyone else who knew them all.”
“Lots of people at Maddisons.”
“Don’t be bloody awkward,” Roger said irritably. “I mean who fancied them all. Seen anything about other young ex-Maddison mothers?”
“No – it’ll take a long time to find out where they’ve all gone. Some are in London, but there are others all over the country. I put two men on to it as soon as I came in, and Ramsbottom was here half the night with Maddison’s staff records.”
“Good enough,” Roger said. “What beats me is, where’ve those others gone?”
“That Osborn girl will turn up in the river, Cartwright too, I wouldn’t wonder,” Evans prophesied glumly.
He went off, and Roger studied more reports.
Helen Osborn had been Edward Maddison’s mistress for several years, and the association had been broken off three years ago. The girl was believed to have been given a down payment as consolation, and a cushy job for life.
Maddison had met his wife at a fashion show where his carpets had been part of the decor; the fact that within a few months they had been married suggested that Hilda had not been so complaisant as Helen Osborn.
Cartwright seemed to have led an ordinary, uneventful life.
At half-past eleven the autopsy report came in, with its grim tidings. Gibson had undoubtedly died from suffocation, and carpet dust – now identified as Mirzapore – was found in his lungs and nose. Once this was known, Roger was quick to sense the mood of everyone at the Yard. Yesterday they had been uneasy, because Gibson was missing; today, each man felt that it was his responsibility to help to find the murderers. Every Division was alerted, the River Police were checking the most likely places for the body to have been put into the water, and river know-alls came to the conclusion that it had been somewhere on the south side of the river, probably opposite the Tower of London.
“And within half a mile of the Maddison dockside warehouse,” Roger said, when he was told. He felt savage with the situation and angry with himself. He also had an oddly guilty and yet relieved feeling. He had sent Gibson to Maddisons – but Gibson had virtually asked to be sent. If he, Roger, had had his own way, he would have gone there, and his body might now have been lying on the mortuary slab.
He was alone in his office when a telephone bell jarred out, and he picked up the receiver with a half fear that this would be more bad news. It was the laboratory chief.
“Bit more for you, Handsome. We’ve been able to compare the hair and dandruff found in that cap from last night’s baby case, and Cartwright’s.”
“Well?” Roger barked.
“The same,” the other assured him.
Now the pointers were really aimed at Cartwright. Given a little more, there would be a tight case against him. Was it too far-fetched to think that the man might have been framed? Was all the evidence too perfect?
Roger was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t when the telephone bell rang again.
“West,” he said sharply.
“We’ve cornered Joe Corrissey at Waterloo,” a man told him. “Coming?”
Chapter Seventeen
Capture
Roger pulled up at the foot of the steps beneath the great clock at Waterloo station, and jumped out of his car and ran up the steps. Two or three people on the platform stared. He saw a uniformed policeman standing by the nearer bookstall, and made a beeline for the man, who recognised him at once.
“The wanted man’s on the line, sir, other end of the platform.”
“Right.” Roger ran along the wide approach to the platforms. Comparatively few people were about, for the rush hour was over. Music was being relayed over a loudspeaker. A small child got in his way, and he stumbled while avoiding it. He saw the little cinema at the far end of the station, and just beneath it was a cordon of men; obviously these were Divisional and Railway police. He recognised a very fat, flabby man, Largetson, of the local Division, and Largetson beckoned.
Roger reached the cordon.
“Know where he is?” he asked.
“We think he’s somewhere under that train,” Largetson answered. A long train was standing at the end platform. Its carriages had been freshly washed, and it was streaming with water. A whistle went off, a high-pitched, painful screech of sound. Along the platform policemen in uniform, porters and plain-clothes men were standing, or bending down and peering underneath the carriages, but they could not see anything. As this was the end platform, on the other side of the carriages there was the smoke-grimed wall of the station, with a few gaudy advertisement pictures on it. If Corrissey was under there, he could hide for a long time; but he would have no chance of escaping.
“Sure he’s there?” Roger asked Largetson.
“Haven’t seen him meself,” the other man answered.
“I have, sir.” A diminutive porter, with a nose which looked as if it had been pushed to one side, was near them. “A hunchback, he was, came running with a coupla coppers – I—I mean two police officers – running after him. They were too big to get down between the platform and the running-board, but he wasn’t.”
“Is there any other way out?” Roger asked.
“There are one or two service pits where he could hide, that’s all,” said the porter, and then he moved aside quickly, for a square-shouldered man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap with some gold braid on it came hurrying. Roger recognised him as the station master; he was affable, although he was burning to get to the fugitive, and shook hands.
“Second time I’ve had to worry you,” he said. “It looks as
if the only way we’ll flush out the man is to drive the train out. Can you do that without upsetting schedules?”
The station master said dryly: “Lot of difference that will make if you really want it done. But we can move the train twice its own length without interfering with anything. Would you like to be with the driver?”
“No, thanks. I’ll watch in case we flush our man.”
“A driver’s on the way,” the station master told him. “Is it this baby-killer case?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you don’t let the swine escape,” the station master said.
Roger made no comment. A brisk-moving man came up, younger than he had expected: the electric train driver. As he made his way towards the front driving cabin, word was passed along to the men on the platform. They stood at intervals of every three or four yards. At the front of the train, more men stood on either side, ready to pounce if Corrissey decided to make a run for it. Roger stood halfway along the platform so that he could see nearly everything, but was blocked by the train itself of the view at the front end on the far side. But once the hunchback was seen, there would be a warning cry, and he would know the truth.
He saw the driver get into his cabin. Almost at once there was a hiss of hydraulic brakes, and then the train began to move, very slowly at first. Every man watched tensely, looking right and left. Roger wished that he were higher up, so that he could get a more comprehensive view, but all he could do was stand there and wait.
The end of the train passed him; in another thirty seconds it would have moved its whole length.
“He’s probably clinging to the undercarriage,” the station master hazarded. “Or he could be inside one of the carriages, under the seat.”
“Every carriage has been entered,” Largetson told him. “No, I think—”
Then there came a cry from the far end of the train. “There he is!” Roger, already on the move, leapt down on to the track. On the far side, close to the wall, he was able … to see everything. The hunchback had appeared on the far side, near the front of the train. Four men were closing in on him; it was obvious that he hadn’t a chance. Everything was in clear silhouette to Roger; it seemed only a matter of seconds before the wanted man was caught.
Then a man bellowed: “Mind the live rails!”
Everyone who heard that seemed paralysed, even Corrissey; and then everyone began to move with greater care, until Corrissey launched himself at one of the policemen, a hefty man who looked as if he could fell his assailant with a single blow. There was a brief, wild scuffle, and during it an electric train came slowly to a standstill, and instantly Roger realised that the electric current had been switched off. Other men began to move more freely, but before they could reach the two who were struggling, the policeman staggered back, tripped over a rail, and toppled downwards. The hunchback raced through the gap he had made. Men grabbed at him, but missed. Others were shouting. Someone threw a metal object which struck the rails with a crash. The hunchback was now streaking along the track, with men closing in on him from each side.
He dodged to the right, towards the main tracks of the station, and that was the moment when Roger saw the worst danger.
Several trains were coming in, all steam trains, two on the main lines. One was travelling fast, the other crawling. If Corrissey could get between them he would have won a chance for himself. He realised that, and with his head down he ran towards the slow-moving train. Obviously he hoped to get past it, and then to stand between it and the fast-moving train. When that had passed, he could reach the other side of the tracks. There was a wall there, a bridge over the road, and a chance for a man as agile as Corrissey to scramble down. The police were running.
“For God’s sake tell them to be careful!” the station master cried. “That train can’t stop in time.”
“Stop them!” Roger shouted. “Largetson! Make sure no one gets hurt.”
He was already on the move, towards the slow-moving train and the hunchback. He did not think that he would have a chance to get really near, but had to try. He heard Largetson’s voice blaring out over the loudspeaker. “All police officers stop until the train passes.” His voice boomed out, but close to the engine of the steam trains the noise was so great that not everyone was likely to be able to distinguish the words. Roger saw most of the men stop, but the two nearest Corrissey went on, and one of them was only three yards behind the man.
Roger was too far away to help.
Corrissey crossed the line in front of the slow-moving train, and then spun round. He hurled something at the two men approaching. Roger saw one of them stop, and fling up his hands, and trip. He pitched forward. The other checked his rush, staggered, and then realised how near he was to the train and tried to get back. He succeeded. The first man was lying full length across the rails, and the engine struck him.
He had no chance.
And Corrissey was out of sight, hidden by the carriages of the slow train, while the one which had been moving faster was now slowing down.
The policeman who had been knocked over must have been killed instantaneously. The rage which Roger had felt when he had heard of the finding of Gibson’s body was greater now. He was still running, and most of the others had stopped, horrified at their impotence. The man who had just managed to dodge back out of danger was standing motionless, hands raised a little in front of him. Roger saw a foot on the line. A foot. He clenched his teeth and leapt for the running-board of the slowly moving train, reached it, hoisted himself up, and clutched at a door handle. He hauled himself upright. The carriage had four people in it, all of them looking at him, gargoyle-like in their startled stillness. He edged to one side, holding a hand-rail alongside the door and bellowed: “Let me in!”
A man opened the door as the train was jolting to a standstill, and Roger scrambled in and rushed to the corridor. A window was open, and he caught a glimpse of Corrissey crouching between this train and the one alongside it. The one which had been fast moving was now crawling, and Corrissey was close to its last carriage. He did not see Roger and did not look round, but darted behind the train as soon as it passed. He was heading for the signal box, which looked a dazzling white in the sun, and towards the parapet – a kind of bridge over the narrow streets below. Stretched out beyond Roger and the fugitive was the panorama of London, with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament showing clearly, as if very close to hand.
Corrissey began to clamber over the parapet.
Roger leapt down, and almost fell on to the big flints of the track. He made so much noise that Corrissey glanced over his shoulder and saw him. Until that moment the hunchback had probably believed that he was almost clear.
Roger saw the flint in Corrissey’s hand, and as the man flung it Roger ducked, realising what had brought the dead policeman down. He snatched at some of the flints on the track. They were about the size of eggs, and very heavy.
Corrissey was swinging over the parapet, about to climb down. Roger hurled three stones, saw one strike him on the head and bounce off, saw another strike a hand which was clutching the parapet.
The hand was snatched away, and Corrissey fell.
Roger heard nothing, no cry and no thud, until there was a squeal of brakes a long way beneath him. He went to the parapet and looked down. A small private car and a huge lorry were stopping in the road, and the blob that had been Corrissey was between them.
Roger saw the other policeman come up, heard some of them speak to him, and did not speak in return. He felt as if he could fling himself over the parapet, he had made such a hash of this. Hash. He kept seeing a mental picture of the policeman being mown down by the train, and seeing Corrissey’s face as he had let go of the stonework. He, Roger West, had done everything a man could, had done the only possible thing; yet another policeman had been killed, and he himself had killed a vital witness.
He heard Largetson say roughly: “Shake out of it, Handsome.” Largetson’s fat fingers were in front of
Roger’s face, and he snapped forefinger and thumb. Roger moved back from the parapet. Largetson said: “Have a spot of this,” and produced a whisky flask. Then he asked, almost savagely: “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Damned good riddance.”
Roger said: “He was the witness we wanted most.”
“All I wanted was to see him dead.”
“My God!” Roger exclaimed. “And you’re in charge of a Division!”
“And a bloody sight better copper than you are,” Largetson retorted.
Roger opened his mouth to snarl back, then realised what he was about to do. No one else was within earshot, but men were looking at them curiously, and if he and Largetson got into a brawl it would be the talk of London’s police. He clenched his teeth, and swung away; turning, he saw the little pucker at Largetson’s mouth, and swung back.
Largetson was grinning.
“Handsome West back under control,” he remarked. “Handsome, don’t drive yourself too hard. You always do, you know. Don’t carry everybody’s blasted burden. It’s your one weakness, even if you do want to crown me for telling you about it.”
Roger said slowly, gratefully: “Thanks. Let me have a swig of that poison you’re carrying.” It was whisky. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and said: “Thanks a lot. Mind searching that body for me?”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Largetson, and then glanced up at someone who was stepping across the rails and frowned. “These baskets seem to have a nose for murder,” he went on. “Here’s Spendlove of the Globe.”
Chapter Eighteen
One Step Nearer
Look,” Roger said, to Spendlove, “don’t push us too far. We’d got all the stations watched and Corrissey, the packing warehouseman at Maddisons, tried to use this one. He tried to escape and jumped to his death. That’s it.”
“And all about it,” Largetson growled.
“Who got nearest to him?” asked Spendlove.