The Case of the Innocent Victims

by John Creasey

“Wes—”

  “A policeman,” Roger said. “Policemen do quite a job.” He was still edgy, and not quite certain how to deal with this situation; certainly he did not want Largetson to think that he had given the Globe man preferential treatment. He found himself thinking that it was odd that Spendlove was so often on the spot; but was it? His job was to follow the case through.

  “All right, no more glamour for you,” Spendlove responded, good-humouredly. “Any news of that blonde from Maddisons?”

  “No. Nor of Cartwright.”

  “That true that Gibson was rolled up in a carpet?”

  “That’s guesswork. He might have had a fight in a carpet warehouse, but it doesn’t have to be Maddisons. We’re checking,” Roger said.

  “Soft pedal on Maddison, eh?” Spendlove asked, and his eyes seemed to ask the reason for this change of mood on Roger’s part.

  “They’re the right tactics for the moment,” Roger said. Then Largetson was called by one of his men, and he was alone with Spendlove. “How did you get to know of this job so soon?”

  “We’ve a chap always on duty at the station,” Spendlove answered. “Handsome, I can only go for one thing at a time, and the Great Men said that I must chase that Osborn blonde. I can’t find a trace of her. Your chaps have scared the wits out of the girl who shares a flat with her, too. Osborn hasn’t turned up at Maddisons, but there’s a rumour that she and Edward Maddison were once going together. Did you know that?”

  “Rumour is the word,” Roger said non-committally. “But there’s something you can do. Spread her picture over your newspaper, make a real splash of it. If she’s under cover, we want her, and if she’s dead—”

  “Any reason to suspect that she might be?” Spendlove demanded. He shielded his eyes with one hand against the bright sunlight, and Roger saw how thin and yet tanned it was.

  “She took Gibson round. Gibson’s dead.”

  “I see what you mean,” conceded Spendlove. “Anything else?”

  “I wish you Fleet Street chaps would do your job,” Roger said, as if disgruntled. “You ought to have found out that Mrs Shaw, Mrs Kindle and Mrs Graham all worked at Maddisons before they were married.”

  “God!” exclaimed Spendlove. “And I’ve been wasting my time on the blonde and Maddison’s wife. Want that used?”

  “I want anything used that will warn other ex-Maddison employees that there might be a psycho after their children.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Spendlove promised. “How about the assistant Corrissey had: Bert May, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m going to see him and Corrissey’s wife now.”

  He went first to Corrissey’s little house. The new widow knew what had happened, and, unless he was badly mistaken, she was stricken with genuine grief. Bert had gone to work, as usual, she said. Roger reached the Mill Street premises nearly two hours after Corrissey’s death, was greeted by the white-haired man almost obsequiously, and was taken to the dispatch warehouse at once. Evans, looking like a ferret, was already there. When Bert May saw Roger, he turned his face away, as if anxious not to be recognised. Roger went to him, made him turn round, and demanded: “Did you help to kill Gibson?”

  Bert’s face was almost like that of a cretin’s. His little eyes were red-rimmed and almost bare of lashes, but their intelligence was clear. His thick lips quivered.

  “No, I never,” he muttered, and saliva gathered at the corner of his lips. “I told you the truth last night.”

  “Was he rolled up in a carpet here?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “What about the girl?” Roger flashed.

  “Wh—wh—what girl?”

  “Miss Osborn. The girl who brought Gibson round here.”

  “Wh—what do you mean?” demanded Bert, and now there was dismay in the little eyes. “She’s all right, isn’t she? He told me that she would be all right. Joe said she would be all right.”

  “Where is she?” Roger demanded.

  “I dunno. He told me she was going to hide somewhere for a few days, that was all.”

  “Tell you what I found,” put in Evans, when they were back at the Yard. “A storage bin with some strips of hessian twisted as if they had been knotted. The girl might have been pushed in there, even though May won’t admit he knows anything about it.”

  “What do you make of him?” Roger asked Evans.

  “I think he’s a lot cleverer and less of a half-wit than he looks,” Evans said.

  “Better charge him with complicity in Gibson’s murder, and bring him here,” Rogei said. “We can keep questioning him at intervals. If he really knows anything he will probably break down. Fix it, will you?”

  “Yes. Mr West—”

  “Yes?”

  “I missed that girl at Maddisons.”

  “I’ve missed a lot, too.”

  “What I think …” Evans said, and then moistened his lips. “What I think is that all this wouldn’t have happened at Maddisons unless Edward Maddison knew something about it. He wouldn’t let anything go on there that he didn’t know about. He was a kind of tyrant there; everybody knows it. If you ask me, he knows where Cartwright is, and knows what’s been going on. I think he ought to be pulled in for questioning.”

  “I had a go at him last night,” Roger said. “I want another soon, but I’d like more to go on. That blonde who showed Gibby round once lived with him.”

  “Well, that’s an angle. And he admits that he knew Corrissey hid Cartwright.”

  “I still want more.”

  “If you ask me—” Evans began, and stopped as the telephone bell rang. It was just as well; he was irritating Roger, any moment there would have been a sharp order, giving rise to more resentment. Roger picked up the telephone, said curtly: “West speaking,” and glanced up at Evans, who was almost sullen. It was a query about a different case, and took only a minute to answer. Roger rang off. “Evans,” he said, in a quieter voice, “what’s got under your skin?”

  Evans answered sourly: “Maddison. He had this affaire with the Osborn girl. He’s Cartwright’s uncle. His own kid’s been threatened. Helen Osborn and Cartwright might hate his guts.” Evans hesitated, and then threw up his hands. “The truth is I think Maddison’s at the bottom of all this, but I can’t get a line on him.”

  “Ledbetter thinks it’s Cartwright.”

  “Why not Cartwright and Maddison working together?” demanded Evans. “Don’t ask me what they’re working on; I don’t know yet. I’ve got a feeling—”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s always the same. If I get an idea, I’m slapped down, or else I’m told that someone else has had it. What I really think is that Cartwright’s being framed, and Maddison’s framing him.”

  “And I still mustn’t ask you why?”

  “It’s always the same,” Evans repeated tautly. “Okay, I’m guessing. But Maddison hid Cartwright and helped to make sure he was hunted, didn’t he? Cartwright’s cap was found as if it had been planted. Cartwright was just the man to kill the Kindle kid. It’s a sight too convenient if you ask me.”

  So it was, all too obviously, but Roger didn’t stop Evans. He had never known the man to talk so freely, never realised that he felt so keenly.

  “… what I’m wondering is whether Maddison’s still got a love nest somewhere, and Cartwright found it. The old boy’s been wenching a lot more than you’d think. If he has a little place tucked away, and the Osborn girl’s the bird in the nest – well, it’s worth checking, anyway. Might be an angle.”

  “We’ll get on to the love nest angle at once,” Roger promised. “I’d been telling myself that framing was out because I couldn’t see a motive. You’ve given me one. Put another two men on to checking Maddison,” Roger went on. “Give it priority, concentrate on it yourself, and drop everything else.”

  When Evans left his cheeks were flushed with mingled excitement and satisfaction.

  Almost immediately word came of two mothers with inf
ant children who had worked at Maddisons, one in Fulham, one in Hampstead. Roger arranged for a special watch to be kept on them, sent word to find out if Maddison had ever set his cap at either, and took five minutes off.

  It was then half-past three; at least the day hadn’t been all bad, for a pattern seemed to be emerging, and leads kept going back to Edward Maddison. Would it still pay to go and see his wife on her own? Would it be a good idea to try to find out if she had any suspicions about a love nest? Roger played with that idea, and rejected it. What he wanted was a fuller history of Hilda Maddison – her own background, friends, habits, enemies, previous boy friends. Supposing Maddison, not Cartwright, was being framed. Maddison could fit the part of victim as easily as that of villain.

  Roger put that job in hand with an inspector, and then went to see the girl who shared Helen Osborn’s flat.

  “Well, yes, she was ever so friendly with Mr Maddison a few years ago, before she shared the flat with me,” the girl said. It was a pleasant, three-roomed flat in Kensington. “But when he got married he put all that kind of thing behind him. I’m sure that he never came here to see her. He gave her something, I think it was a thousand pounds, for services rendered, you might say, and she was perfectly satisfied. He promised her any easy job for life, too. I don’t think there’s anything between them now, but I admit that Helen did go off for weekends occasionally without saying where she was going, and it was none of my business, so I didn’t inquire. Yes, I suppose she might have seen Maddison; all I can say is that I couldn’t be sure …

  “Well, yes, she talked about Mr Cartwright sometimes; she thought he was ever so nice. It was a pity that his nose was put out of joint by the baby coming, but Helen wasn’t worried about it, I can assure you.

  “No, I’ve no idea at all where she might be. No, she never told me where she was going …”

  Roger left the girl at about half-past five, and drove at once to Ledbetter’s Divisional office. Ledbetter looked more like a piece of granite than ever, and was scowling, until he saw who it was. Then he sprang up from a swivel chair in a small, scrupulously tidy office, and said: “Trouble?”

  “It’s all trouble. Have you seen Mrs Kindle today?”

  “I’ve seen our doctor who’s seen her, and had one of my chaps talk to her once or twice.”

  “How is she?”

  “Numb.”

  “Think I can talk to her and get away with it?”

  “Shouldn’t push her too hard,” Ledbetter said, surprisingly. “Otherwise, I don’t see why not. What are you after?”

  “I’d like to know if she ever had an affaire with Edward Madison, and if she did, where,” Roger said. “Lend me a guide, will you? I don’t want to lose time getting to the house.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Love Nest?

  Roger was surprised to see Anne Kindle looking as if she had rested, and outwardly calm. It was soon obvious that the calm was induced by drugged sleep and shock. Her movements were slow and mechanical. She smiled at him, but it was only a movement of her lips. Her eyes looked as if they had no life. A cousin from the other side of London was with her, a short, dumpy little woman with untidy grey hair and a brisk manner, the kind who would try to make sure that the bereaved mother did something. She bustled Roger into the front room, bustled her cousin in after him, and bustled out to say that she was just going to make a cup of tea.

  “Mrs Kindle, the last thing I want to do is to worry you,” Roger said, “but I’m very anxious to find out who did this dreadful thing.”

  “I know you are.” The voice was as lifeless as the eyes.

  “You may be able to help, without knowing it.”

  “I’ll do anything.”

  “Do you know of anyone who had reason to hate your baby?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t believe that Mr Cartwright would do anything to my baby.”

  “Did he hate the baby?”

  The lack-lustre eyes showed no sign of life.

  “He didn’t like my baby because I couldn’t go out in the evenings, that’s all. He always wanted me to go out in the evenings, but how could I? He used to get fed up sometimes, but he wouldn’t hurt Nigel. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

  “Did you ever go out with him?”

  “Oh, yes, sometimes.”

  “Who looked after the baby then?”

  “My cousin used to come once a month, and sometimes a lady from next door would sit-in for me.”

  “I see. And where did you go when you went out with Mr Cartwright?”

  “Sometimes to a theatre, and to dinner, sometimes for a drive into the country, and sometimes to the pictures. Somehow I feel that what has happened is a kind of retribution, because a married woman shouldn’t go out with a man who isn’t her husband, should she?”

  “It’s very often done, and doesn’t always do harm,” Roger said, gently.

  “A married woman shouldn’t,” insisted Anne Kindle. “I feel as if it’s a kind of vengeance.” Still her eyes did not pucker. “I always knew I shouldn’t go, and that—that’s one of the reasons why I made my baby an excuse. One of the neighbours would always have looked after him for me. I could have gone, but I blamed my baby.”

  Roger said, softly: “I shouldn’t blame yourself at all, Mrs Kindle. And you were alone a great deal, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you went into the country for a drive with Mr Cartwright, did you go to any special place?”

  “Well, only once,” she said, and for the first time feeling crept into her voice. “There wasn’t any harm in it.”

  Roger said: “Are you in love with Roy Cartwright?”

  “No!” Again, there was feeling in the voice. “I’m in love with my husband. I always have been; you ought to know that.”

  “Have you heard from your husband?”

  “There hasn’t been time,” Mrs Kindle protested.

  “Did your husband know about your friendship with Roy Cartwright?”

  This time Mrs Kindle shouted: “No! And there wasn’t any harm in it, not really. I got so lonely here with Jim away for months on end. I couldn’t sit in evening after evening. I just couldn’t. It was driving me mad. I had to go to the pictures sometimes, I had to talk to someone, I had to dance, and—now look what’s happened. Now look!”

  She began to cry.

  Roger heard the sounds of the woman walking about next door, and heard the handle turn. Mrs Kindle was sobbing. The bustler looked up, as if in surprise. A large tea tray was held in front of her, the edge pressing into her bulging bosom.

  “Well, you’ve done more than I could, and I’ve been trying all day,” the bustler declared. “What she wants is a good cry. It’s no use bottling everything up inside; you only feel worse. I’ll leave the tea, and you can pour out if she quietens down a bit, but don’t try to stop her from crying, will you?”

  “I won’t,” Roger promised.

  “Come here a minute,” said the cousin as she put the tray on a small table. She took Roger’s hand and drew him close, and whispered: “Between you and me, she thinks Cartwright did it, but doesn’t want to admit it because she thinks it would be partly her fault then. That’s her trouble. Conscience. Have you caught the devil yet?”

  “No.”

  “You police take your time, I must say,” declared the bustler, and went out.

  Mrs Kindle was still sobbing, a heartrending sound. The lid of the metal teapot made a queer little clucking, and kept bobbing and bubbling up. Roger lit a cigarette, smoked it, and poured himself out a cup of tea. He had never needed patience more, yet never been so impatient.

  When at last Anne Kindle looked up, her eyes were swimming with tears, all the calmness had gone, her lips were unsteady, her cheeks were wet. She brushed her hands across her eyes, and watched as he poured her a cup of tea, She took it, and began to sip it. All the time she stared at him, a
nd he wondered what was passing through her mind.

  Then, abruptly, she said: “I’ve got to tell someone – if I don’t I’ll go mad. I didn’t do anything wrong with Roy, even when he took me to the bungalow but—but years ago I did do wrong with Mr Maddison. I didn’t know my husband then, though, and a lot of girls would have done the same. It only happened once. You—you won’t tell—”

  “Everything you tell me will be in absolute confidence,” Roger promised her, and fought to speak gently and convincingly. “Where is this bungalow, Mrs Kindle?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have, but I was so lonely in those days, and he—he was so good to me,” Anne Kindle went on. “We used to go out to a little cottage near Kingston. It was really a little bungalow. I knew I shouldn’t, but I didn’t seem to be able to help myself. I knew he would marry me if he could, but he was married at the time. Oh, it’s awful how things work out. I’d almost forgotten about that when Roy came along. He—he really loves me, I’m sure of that. He always wanted to marry me. He said he would do anything in the world if I would get a divorce, but—how could I? I was in love with my husband, and—and because of that he’s killed my baby.”

  “Do you really think that Roy Cartwright killed the baby?” Roger asked.

  “I don’t want to think so, God knows,” said Mrs Kindle drearily. “But he hated Nigel, that’s a fact. I always told him I couldn’t marry him because of Nigel; he was my excuse for not getting a divorce, you see. And – well, Roy got so worked up at times.”

  “Did he get worked up that night?”

  “Yes,” she answered, and closed her eyes and turned away, holding her breath. “Yes, that night he said he wished my baby were dead. We had a dreadful quarrel. We had a …”

  Roger could not hear the rest of the sentence because she was crying so much. But soon he was asking about the bungalow.

  Within twenty minutes, the Surrey police were moving towards the Thames. Roger had been able to give them the address of the riverside bungalow which was nearer Richmond than Kingston, and on a comparatively isolated stretch of the river. Police watched it from the Surrey bank, and approached it from the Middlesex. There were two or three other boathouses and one houseboat within sight, and music was coming from the houseboat when Roger arrived less than an hour after he had left Mrs Kindle. Evans was with him. Evans had discovered nothing new, and had said very little on the way there.