The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  ‘I knew nothing about this call-girl business at that time. Peter kept all that hidden from me. I knew absolutely nothing about it and that’s the truth.’

  ‘But you knew about Linda,’ Harry pointed out gently. ‘You must have known the sort of life she was leading, otherwise—’

  ‘Yes. I knew about her. She was a good friend to me. But I swear to you I didn’t know about Peter.’

  ‘What happened the night I picked you up outside the restaurant in Soho – the Chez Maurice?’

  Judy, realising perhaps that she was still a bit weak on her feet, came back to her chair and sank into it.

  ‘Tam Owen knew the police were looking for me and got one of his girls to tip you off. Then, when Linda saw you outside the restaurant she guessed what Tam was up to. She decided she must help me. So she phoned Tam and told him Peter had given me a letter – a letter containing information about him.’

  ‘About Tam Owen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Was that true – about the letter?’

  ‘No. But it did the trick. He already had Marty Smith trailing me. When we stopped in the Mall Marty rang to check with him. Tam was worried in case I handed the letter over to the police—’

  ‘So he told Marty Smith to mug me and bring you back to him. Then he talked you into skipping the country.’

  ‘Yes. Except that it was Linda who did the talking. I’ve never met Tam Owen.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No, never. Only Marty. He’s a friend of Linda’s, although friend is hardly the right word. I don’t think he’s a friend of anyone’s. In fact, he’s the number one heavy in the Tam Owen set-up.’

  She reached towards the open packet of cigarettes on the table beside her. Harry drew out his lighter and snapped it into flame. She put her hand over his to bring it closer to her cigarette.

  ‘Go on, Judy,’ he said, when she had expelled the first deep lungful of smoke.

  ‘Linda told me if I stayed in this country I hadn’t a chance. She said I’d already behaved so suspiciously that the police were bound to pull me in sooner or later. She promised to get me a false passport.’

  ‘From Tam Owen?’

  ‘Well, from Marty Smith. But it was done through Tam Owen.’

  Harry pondered for a moment. Judy’s face had gone paler. It was evident that this interview was taking its toll of her. But he had to make ground while the going was good.

  ‘Judy, I’ve asked you this question before, but I’m going to ask you again. Did you kill Peter Newton?’

  She looked him right in the eye and somehow this was quite different from Heaton’s false stare. He had time to notice that she had very long eye-lashes under the high, arching brows.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said steadily.

  ‘You didn’t find out what he was really up to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t discover that he was running this dirty racket and decide to take the law into your own hands?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ Judy denied the accusation without exaggerated protestation. ‘It wasn’t like that a bit. I wanted to help Peter. I knew he was in trouble and I was trying to persuade him to go to the police about it. That’s why we had that row in the restaurant.’

  ‘But I thought you told me the row was about a dog collar.’

  ‘It was. It was about the collar and the note. The note you received the morning after he was murdered.’

  Harry moved his chair a little farther round so that he could see her better.

  ‘Tell me about it, Judy.’

  It was eleven o’clock the next morning when Harry picked Judy up from the hospital. Having been admitted as a casualty she had no luggage. The clothes she had been wearing had been cleaned and pressed by a sympathetic nurse. A good night’s sleep had done wonders for Judy and the colour had come back into her cheeks. Her left arm was supported by a brilliant white sling and her jacket had been draped loosely over that shoulder.

  The journey to Defoe Mansions did not take more than ten minutes. Harry made no attempt at concealment this time and parked his 1100 outside the entrance. The empty suitcase which he took from the boot would be full of Judy’s things when they came down.

  Outside the flat on the third floor he put the big suitcase down and gave her a reassuring smile before ringing the bell.

  ‘Now, leave this to me. I’ll talk to Linda. You needn’t say anything. Just collect your things.’

  She nodded and nervously adjusted the sling. After a minute Harry pressed the bell again and this time kept his finger on the button for ten seconds. They could hear it ringing inside the flat.

  ‘I don’t think she’s in,’ Judy said, hoping for the excuse not to have to confront Linda.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it.’ Harry nodded at the letterbox. ‘Try calling her name. She might open when she knows it’s you.’

  Judy stooped and pushed open the flap of the letterbox.

  ‘Linda,’ she called through the aperture. ‘It’s me, Judy.’

  Still there was no response from inside the flat. After another minute Harry took Sidney Heaton’s key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  He ignored the question and quietly opened the door. He picked up the suitcase and walked into the flat, signalling for her to follow. He kept close behind her, just to be on the safe side, as she went into the sitting-room, calling Linda’s name.

  ‘She’s definitely not here. My things are in this room—’

  ‘Wait!’ Harry stopped her as she put her hand on the door of a room facing the one where he had found Linda. He went past her to check the bedroom. It had an empty and abandoned look.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Pack your things as quickly as you can. There’s something about this I don’t like.’

  Judy went past him and slid back the door of a built-in cupboard. Harry put the suitcase down on the bed and opened it.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Judy exclaimed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My things are here but Linda’s seem to have disappeared.’

  ‘Does she keep her stuff in here? I thought she—’

  ‘No, a lot of it’s in the other room, but she used to keep her long dresses in here. Wait a minute.’

  Before he could stop her she had gone out of the room. He would have followed her but at that moment the telephone on the bedside table began to ring.

  He stood looking at it for a moment, wondering whether to answer it or not. Then he picked the receiver up and put it to his ear.

  Immediately a voice, said crisply: ‘586 1729?’

  Harry glanced down at the disc to verify the number. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a telegram for Linda Wade.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll take it.’

  ‘Message begins: “Will expect you ten o’clock tomorrow”. It’s signed: “Douglas”.’

  ‘Douglas, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Where was the telegram sent from?’

  ‘It was handed in at St. Albans at eleven forty-five.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you want written confirmation?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Harry was still standing thoughtfully in front of the telephone when Judy returned.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It was a wrong number. Have you discovered anything?’

  ‘Yes. Linda’s gone. She’s left the flat. Her wardrobe’s completely empty.’

  Harry nodded. ‘All right, Judy. Let’s get moving. We haven’t a lot of time.’

  Judy moved to the wardrobe and began to fold her clothes and lay them in the suitcase.

  ‘How long will it take us to get to this place?’

  ‘It’s about two hours to Bicester. Steeple Aston’s about ten miles from there.’

  Harry was standing in the middle of the room, once again letting his eyes conduct a quick but systematic s
earch which took note of every detail.

  ‘Steeple Aston?’

  ‘That’s the village. The hotel is called The Priory.’

  ‘That’s an unusual name for a hotel,’ Judy said, returning to the wardrobe for another armful of clothes.

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s more a guest-house than a hotel. But don’t worry. You’ll like it all right.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I shall. I’ll be glad to get away from London.’

  She folded a cardigan and placed it in the suitcase. Then she straightened up and looked at him across the bed. Her eyes had softened.

  ‘I’m terribly grateful, Harry, for what you’re doing.’

  ‘There’s no need to be grateful,’ he said, thinking how very attractive she looked when she relaxed the rather hard manner which she affected. ‘Just take care of yourself. And, above all, remember what I told you. Don’t give your address to anyone, don’t go out of the hotel and if you must use the phone, phone me.’

  She smiled at his emphatic and sincere tone.

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘The people who own the hotel are friends of mine. I’ve told them that you’re recovering from a nasty car accident and that you’ve got to be absolutely—’

  He stopped and they both looked towards the hall. Someone had rung the door-bell. Harry put his finger to his lips and motioned Judy to stay where she was. He went out into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him, and stood listening.

  Outside on the landing he heard the clattering sound of the lift doors closing and then the receding moan as it descended. Whoever the caller had been his business was evidently not very urgent.

  Just to make sure, Harry went and opened the door. The landing he looked out on was empty, but on the door-mat lay a long white envelope.

  He stooped to pick it up. Even before his fingers touched it he realised that he had made an unpardonable mistake. The corner of his eye caught the movement of a trousered leg close to the wall flanking the door. He tried to twist sideways to avoid the blow which he knew must come. But he was too late. He never felt the gun-butt hit his head, never saw the floor coming up to meet his forehead.

  Marty Smith stepped over the unconscious body and went quickly into the flat his gun at the ready.

  ‘Judy!’

  He stood at the entrance to the living-room, looking suspiciously round, then went to the doors of the adjoining bedroom and pushed them open. He came back into the hall, still calling her name. He saw the closed bedroom door and wrenched it open.

  She was standing just inside, her eyes wide.

  ‘Marty!’ She managed to summon up a smile. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yeah. Why the hell didn’t you answer when I called.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure it was you. Did you manage to fix that stupid copper?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He took her by the arm and led her into the hall. She checked as she saw Harry’s body lying in the doorway.

  ‘Smug bastard had it coming to him,’ she said. There was no trace now of the soft look in her eyes.

  ‘Come on, Judy,’ Marty urged her, as he led the way out on to the landing.

  She had to step over Harry’s body to follow. His head had turned sideways as he fell so that he was facing towards the lift. His eyes were shut, or almost so. She knew that he was not dead, only unconscious, for one eyelid seemed to twitch.

  Marty was jabbing impatiently at the call button of the lift, even though the illuminated numbers on the panel showed that it was mounting. He had his hand on the door to open it as the lock was released. He hustled Judy in, thrusting the gun into his shoulder holster.

  Mr. Pye was one of the longest established tenants in the Mansions and had a flat on the ground floor. He knew from experience that there was only one way of getting the lift to stop at the first floor when the passengers already in it had pressed the Ground Floor button; that was to pull strongly at the door so that it would open as the lift passed the trip.

  The manoeuvre took Marty completely by surprise. He glared as Mr. Pye stepped into the lift, smiling amicably. He pressed the button for the ground floor and they all stood close together as the lift again began to sink.

  Suddenly Judy, with her uninjured arm, made a grab for the gun in its shoulder holster. She managed to draw it out before Marty smacked his hand down on her wrist.

  ‘Help me!’ she shouted to the astonished Mr. Pye.

  He reacted with surprising rapidity, flinging himself on to Marty’s arm to keep the gun pointing towards the floor. It exploded a couple of times during the struggle sending bullets ripping through the floor and filling the confined space with the smell of cordite. Then Marty kicked Mr. Pye in the stomach. He gasped, loosened his hold and rolled on the floor.

  At that moment the lift jerked to a halt. Marty opened the door and viciously pushed Judy out. She stumbled over the step and went staggering across the hall till she fetched up against the far wall. As Marty made to go after her, Mr. Pye reached a hand out and neatly tripped him up.

  Swearing, Marty picked himself up and turned to aim another kick at Mr. Pye. Then he went for Judy, who had slid to the floor, almost fainting from the pain in her shoulder. He stooped to drag her to her feet, exposing his back to the staircase which reached ground level just alongside the lift.

  Harry, racing the lift to the ground floor, was taking the steps three at a time. His final leap carried him right on to Marty’s back, bearing him to the ground. The gun escaped from his fingers and Judy kicked it away across the parquet.

  With sinewy strength Marty managed to break away from Harry’s grip and roll clear. He bounced on to his feet like one of those toys that you can’t knock over and almost at the same instant a knife appeared in his hand.

  Harry just had time to get to his knees as Marty came in, but he knew that this was a position of advantage. As Marty lunged with the knife he pivoted sideways, slamming his left hand on the man’s wrist. Then he brought his right hand across to meet Marty’s using the other man’s strength to drive the thrust upwards.

  Marty howled and twisted over backwards to avoid his arm being broken. As he tried to rise a solid left from Harry’s fist knocked him out cold.

  Harry turned quickly to Judy, who was clutching her injured shoulder as she sat slumped against the wall. Her face was twisted with pain.

  ‘Judy, are you all right?’

  She managed to summon a brave smile.

  ‘Keep on like this and they really will have to keep me in hospital.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Harry agreed, rubbing the new lump which he now had on the other side of his head.

  Behind him Mr. Pye prudently collected Marty’s gun from the floor and applied the safety catch.

  Harry was taking things easy this morning. After all he was supposed to be on leave and he wanted to make the most of the days that remained. There was a lot to be done straightening out his father’s affairs and there was always the shop to be looked after. Douglas Croft was competent enough, but he was reluctant to make decisions on his own. Now that he had presented them with Marty Smith, Harry felt that Yardley and Nat could get on with the job of smoking out Tam Owen. The suspicion which seemed to have been hanging over him at one time had been cleared up, though he was still not sure whether Yardley had been genuinely suspicious or not. If the Chief Superintendent had seen that TV programme on his father, he might well have decided to put ‘the tough little glamour boy of Scotland Yard’ in his place.

  Though he might not have admitted it to himself, however, the principal reason for his feeling comparatively relaxed was the knowledge that Judy was safely hidden away where no one could find her.

  He had telephoned her that morning, even before shaving and dressing. She had sounded happy and well. Even the rough and tumble with Marty Smith had not made her arm any worse. He repeated his warning about not leaving the hotel, not making any phone calls except to him.

  He was just going into the bathroom to sha
ve when the front door-bell rang. He hesitated, then decided he’d better answer it. It might be Nat with the latest developments. Maybe they had located Linda. It was even possible that Marty had been persuaded to break his obstinate silence.

  The early morning caller was Hubert Rogers and to judge by his fresh, spruced up appearance he was on his way to the office. The tie was dead central in the V of the stiff white collar, the bowler on a safety level keel, the black shoes brightly polished. The rolled umbrella and brief-case were simply the finishing touches.

  Harry could not quite conceal his surprise.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Dawson. Could you spare me a few moments?’

  ‘Yes, of course, come along in.’

  ‘I say,’ Hubert was eyeing the silk dressing-gown and striped pyjamas with concern. ‘I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.’

  ‘No. I’ve been up for some time,’ Harry told him cheerfully as they moved into the sitting-room. ‘I just haven’t got round to getting dressed yet. I’m officially on leave, you know. Can I offer you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ With typical predictability, Hubert laid his hat and umbrella down in exactly the same place as on his first visit. ‘Dawson, I’ve been going through my aunt’s things, dealing with her affairs and so on. Yesterday I had to make a decision about the dog.’

  ‘Zero.’

  ‘In the end I decided to take it down to a friend of mine who lives in the country.’

  ‘Where was the dog? At the hotel?’

  ‘Yes. Curiously enough they make provision for pets, that’s probably why my aunt preferred the hotel in the first place.’ Harry had noticed already that when Hubert spoke of his aunt it was with a certain condescension. Doubtless it rankled with him that he had a relation who stooped so low as to enter domestic service. ‘Incidentally, you know it was all nonsense about her working there. She was actually staying as a guest.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Harry had no intention of inviting Hubert to sit down. ‘But what was it you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Well, when I picked up Zero the first thing I noticed was his collar.’ Hubert was opening the catches of his brief-case. ‘It was obviously brand new and in view of the fuss my aunt made about the original one which your father gave her, I thought I’d take a jolly good look at this one.’