Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  “We’d better make sure it is his body,” West said. “Second right you said, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, by that old stile.”

  The road climbed steeply for a few hundred yards, and ran through wooded land, where a soft mist of bluebells still lingered, although it was fading, most petals gone, the spiky green leaves flattening out. Birds flitted, or dived swiftly. Nothing else stirred. The wind had dropped, the sun was high, and it was hot inside the car. They turned off this road on to a narrow but tarred one, which had recently been surfaced with pale coloured washed gravel. The tyres crunched when West went close to the verge, where the gravel lay thick and loose. Grassland was on either side, now, but they could see the sea on the left and, in the distance, a sweeping bay with cliffs on the far side from here. A single yacht, its white sail looking startlingly white, rode the calm blue sea.

  “Pull in at the top, and stop a minute,” Wortleberry said.

  West did so. There was plenty of room, and he went on to the short grass between the road and a tall rock, which looked dark and ominous in spite of the sun.

  “That’s Demon’s Rock, guarding Demon’s Cove,” Wortleberry announced. “Wicked in rough weather, that cove. Let’s get out a minute, I’ll show you the lie of the land.”

  They got out. The breeze off the sea brushed their faces, the air smelt clear and fresh and strong; unfamiliar to a man from the petrol laden air of London.

  They looked back the way they had come.

  The town of Hoole, which had a population of nine thousand four hundred during the winter, and twenty nine thousand odd during the summer, lay in a valley between the hills which, in this part of Sussex, ran right down to the sea. The side of the valley nearer West and the local man was tree clad. Through the trees, a few small houses showed – all rather like the sharp edged white house of the Mallows. On a headland, a large, grey stone house stood with two turrets and castellated roofs. The land on the far side was mostly meadowland, cattle were grazing, ant like from here; and at the crest of one smooth, green breasted hill, a thick mass of white told of sheep in a pen.

  Two villages were in sight, one with a Norman towered church, one with a slender grey spire.

  Hoole itself was divided by a narrow river, which looked bright and glistening this morning. West saw the three bridges – one suspension and two arched. From here, the arched bridges looked very old. It was possible to see the criss cross of narrow streets; only on the outskirts, in the new town, was there any hint of town planning. There were two parks, bright green and pleasant, and a dozen churches.

  Wortleberry pointed.

  “Not just sight seeing,” he said, apologetically. “There’s the London Road, road you came on, sixty one miles to Marble Arch from there. See. There’s the road to the west, and there’s the Worthing and Brighton Road. The main road, West, is about a mile away from us, but if you follow this one right round, past the cottage, you come out to it. Favourite walk, this, in the summer. Crowded on Sundays. There’ve been a lot of offers to buy it for building, but old Lord Hoole won’t have it. He’s chief landowner, Chief Constable, everything. He presented it to the town in trust, but now the trouble is that he hasn’t got enough capital left to help us keep it up. Have to sell to the builders one of these days, I suppose, if we can’t get some help from the National Trust. Sacrilege to build up here, though.”

  West nodded.

  “Only house within miles is Reedon’s cottage, and he fell on his feet when he got that,” the local man went on. “It’s just outside the Hoole property, falling to rack and ruin when he bought it. Used it just for weekends, for a year or so. Then he spent a bit of money, put in an electric light plant, and came here to live.”

  “Where from?”

  “London, as far as I know,” Wortleberry said. “Anyway, the place is worth a small fortune, now.”

  “Wonder where he got his money from,” West said, almost idly. “Well, let’s have a look round.”

  A few yards farther on, the cottage came in sight. It was timbered on the outside as well as in, the tiles were weathered red and covered with lichen. The windows were tiny, although one showed signs that it had been made larger recently; the surround looked new. There were three chimney stacks, and the rooms must be very low; the whole building hardly seemed high enough for two floors.

  “People walk up here just to see the garden, in the spring,” Wortleberry said. “Bit late now, but then it’s a mass of rock flowers. Aubrietia, violets, wallflowers, tulips—oh, everything. Just a mass. His dwarf azaleas are a proper sight, too. Pity it’s a between season.”

  West stopped the car and got out again. One glimpse told him that, between seasons or not, this garden was remarkable. The lay out of the rockery itself was beautifully done; there were streams, two pools, goldfish swimming lazily, tiny waterfalls; all in miniature, but none of it looking artificial. Here was a labour of love.

  “Did Reedon do all this himself?” asked West.

  “Oh, yes. Worshipped the place. Had a man in a few days a week for the vegetable garden at the back, though, and sold most of the vegetables, made quite a good thing out of it. Tomatoes, too. The garage is round the back, just an old barn; he wouldn’t have anything that looked out of place. Car’s still there.” Wortleberry grumbled deep in his throat. “If I’d had my way I’d have been in here early, but the Chief says no, wait a bit, check the laundry marks on his clothes. Nothing in the pockets to help, you know. I’ll certainly be surprised if the body we took out of the sea this morning isn’t Reedon’s. I’ve seen that bit nicked out of his right ear often enough, and I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence. Going in back way or front way?”

  “Let’s try the front,” West said.

  They approached slowly, looking about them. The cottage with its long, crooked path, looked idyllic; very different from the battered body now lying on a bench in the autopsy room next to the police station. The garden looked as if it were one which someone loved.

  The newspaper was still in the letterbox.

  They tried the iron handle, and pushed the thick oak door; it wouldn’t budge. Wortleberry took out a bunch of keys, selected a long, shiny skeleton one and, without a word, slid it into the lock and twisted and turned.

  The big lock turned with a sharp click.

  “Quick work,” West said, and pushed the door when Wortleberry stepped aside for him. “Thanks.”

  He had to lower his head to get into the lounge beyond; standing upright, he would bump his head on the oak beam which stretched from above the fireplace to the opposite wall. Dark oak beams were flush with the other walls. The cottage had all the picturesque charm of a show place, and although it seemed dark after the bright sunlight, one could see well enough. Brasses and copper pieces gleamed on the walls, over the high mantelpiece, in the huge fireplace, with its gate and spits, its hanging hook, and the huge wrought iron dogs. Two muskets, crossed, were above the fireplace; there were other old pistols and matchlocks; a museum of old arms.

  West wasn’t thinking of the museum pieces.

  He sniffed.

  Wortleberry kept grumbling, in that perpetual way of his, and appeared to notice nothing.

  West sniffed again, and then shuddered; nausea pulled at his stomach. He moved back, and opened the door wide.

  By then Wortleberry also knew that something was amiss, but didn’t appear to know what. Had he no sense of smell?

  West said: “There it is, over there.”

  He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and put it to his nose, then led the way. Puzzled, Wortleberry kept close.

  He wasn’t puzzled for long.

  The body of a man lay on the stone flagged floor of the kitchen. He had been dead for several days. And the cottage was not free from rats.

  Chapter Five

  Two Dead Men

  West still went forward, but Wortleberry didn’t. He stood still, head lowered because of the beams; and his ruddy face had lost colour
. West, closer to the body, saw that there would be little difficulty in identification; the features were recognisable on one side of the face. The man had fair hair, turning grey, and looked young middle aged. The back of his head had been smashed in, and probably the first blows had killed him.

  He wore a light grey suit, brown shoes, red socks, and an old raincoat. On the shoulders there was a white powdering, like flour. One of his knees was bent. He lay on his back, one arm across his chest, the other straight by his side. His head was turned towards the kitchen stove, enabling West to see what he had seen.

  The hands had suffered most. West moved quickly, and made sure that the finger tips weren’t destroyed.

  He didn’t linger, but went across to the two small kitchen windows, and opened them. Without a word, he and Wortleberry did the same thing in a small wash house, in the front room, and in a tiny study. In there was a fairly modern oak desk, a portable typewriter with its black cover on, papers, books, all the impedimenta of an office. It was scrupulously tidy, and probably the one room in the house where a telephone would not look out of place.

  “Shall I send for—everything?” Wortleberry’s face was quite expressionless now.

  “As soon as you like.”

  Wortleberry took out a handkerchief, covered the telephone with it, then lifted it; he wasn’t going to miss a trick, and he would be on his mettle with a Yard man here. West heard him give the police station number, ask for Inspector Porth, grumble noisily, and then tell the Inspector to come up to the cottage, bringing everything he would need for a murder probe.

  “Yes, the body’s here,” Wortleberry said, “ambulance, doctor, photographers—well, everyone. Hurry.” He paused, then said, “Goo’bye,” and rang off.

  West was bending over the body again, lips set tightly, head averted; he went through the pockets, brought out a few oddments, and put them aside.

  Wortleberry went to move them.

  There was nothing to name the dead man; money, keys, a comb, everything a man would usually carry – except papers which might help to identify him.

  Wortleberry placed everything neatly on a table.

  “Better have a look round upstairs,” West said briskly.

  They went out, and each man glanced at the body.

  “Not Reedon?” West asked.

  “Oh, no, Reedon’s a younger man, and dark haired. That chap’s forty five, shouldn’t put Reedon more than thirty two or three. Bigger than that fellow, too.”

  They were close to the feet, and the narrow, twisting stairs led from the little passageway between the front room and the kitchen. West led the way up, Wortleberry’s shoulders brushed the wall on either side.

  Both men ducked big beams.

  In the rooms both had to crouch, except in the main bedroom. They stopped to take a good look at everything, and photographed it on their minds. The hole in the ceiling, the chippings of plaster and the powder on the floor, thick just beneath the hole, but only a film on the rest of the uneven boards, on the bed panels, and the dressing table; it was on everything with a dark surface. Even the window ledges had a film of white dust, which had all come from the hole in the ceiling.

  A chair was beneath the hole, as if a man had stood on it while making the hole or looking through it. The dead man’s shoulders had a similar dusting of white.

  “Take a dekko,” Wortleberry said; without realising it, he whispered. “See what you can. Better not risk my weight on that chair.”

  It was an old William and Mary, with a slung leather seat and a slung leather back, worn almost black and very shiny. The legs were sturdy but of unequal thickness. It creaked as West got up on it, cautiously, took a slim torch from his pocket, and then looked into the loft, shining the torch round.

  The beam fell upon a small packet. He could not see what it was at first. He fished it nearer, using the torch, and then saw the green design of one pound notes. He took the packet by one corner, held it gingerly, then pulled it out of the hole. As he did so, he pictured Daphne Mallow and the slimmer bundle of one pound notes. This one held two hundred and fifty at least; hers hadn’t been anything like so thick.

  “Found anything?” Wortleberry breathed.

  “Yes,” West said. He lowered himself out of the hole cautiously, then brought his hand down. “Don’t want to smear any prints, although I shouldn’t think there’s much there.” The Hoole man promptly unfolded a clean white handkerchief, and West put the wad on that, before climbing down. “Two hundred and fifty, I’d say. Oldish notes.” His voice was low pitched, too. “I wonder exactly what we’re up against.”

  The Superintendent was looking at the bundle. It was covered with dust, which stirred gently, and showed up vividly where a shaft of sunlight came into the room. Keeping it together was a strip of yellow gummed paper, stuck down to form a tight band; so the wad was slightly thicker at the ends, where there was no pressure, than in the middle, where it was constricted.

  “I just don’t know what we’re up against,” Wortleberry said very emphatically. “But I know that if Reedon had any more of that up there, it was probably—” Wortleberry stopped abruptly.

  “There was plenty more, I could see where it stood,” West said. “Perhaps he wasn’t left any money, after all.”

  “If Reedon was a crook—” Wortleberry began, and then growled: “What’s the matter with me, gassing like this? We’ve got a killer to find.”

  “One who crept behind that chap downstairs and smashed his head in—probably after he’d collected the money in the ceiling,” West said. “We want cash and a killer.”

  “Wonder if Reedon and Mallow did this together, and skipped,” Wortleberry said. He drew the corners of the handkerchief across the bundle of notes, then tied a neat knot. “My chaps won’t be long. I usually leave it to them after a few general instructions, but if you want anything special done, just tell them.”

  “Thanks,” said West.

  Wortleberry frowned.

  “Didn’t you say that Mrs. Mallow had a bundle of notes in her hand? One pounds?”

  “Yes. We’ll have another talk with her as soon as we know if Mallow’s really gone north. She had a worry all right, and I’d like to know what it was.”

  “Tell you something,” Wortleberry announced, abruptly. “Mallow was always hard up. Borrowed money all round. Borrowed plenty from Reedon, too, but Reedon wasn’t the only one. Nice chap, Michael Mallow, if it weren’t for playing the fool in more ways than one.”

  He looked at the dead man again.

  An hour later, Roger West left the cottage and walked to his car. The sun made it glisten, and the inside was very hot; he had forgotten to leave a window open. He got in, ignoring the dozen people who had reached the cottage, and were standing and staring. The ambulance, big and white, was still there, backed against the gate; the dead man would soon be carried into it. Three police cars and a small van had also arrived. Two uniformed policemen were on duty, one at the front gate and one at the back door, to make sure that no one forced entry. The people who had been passing by, or else heard a rumour, caught occasional glimpses of big men passing to and fro at the cottage windows.

  They saw the flashes, when photographs were taken.

  They didn’t see the white chalk line which had been drawn round the body, or the thorough, painstaking search which Wortleberry was leading. The quest for finger prints, for anything which might give help, would go on long into the afternoon.

  West started his engine.

  People stared at him.

  He drove off, going slowly, and in spite of the pressure of events, stopped when he reached the spot, near Demon’s Cove, and looked over Hoole again. The sun was in exactly the right place, now; down in the town shadows looked sharp and black, the grey stone houses comparatively light, all the colours of roofs and walls were heightened.

  He didn’t stay for long, but drove down into the town, keeping to the tarred road.

  The discovery of the body on t
he rocks, and the first rough description, had brought him post haste to Hoole, looking for the killer of two schoolgirls. There were several similarities between the body at Hoole and the wanted man. West – “Handsome” at the Yard – had driven down with a sanguine detective sergeant, Bradding, who had a relation at Hoole, and was now with the relation. The dead man he’d seen might be Reedon, but certainly wasn’t the child killer.

  Wortleberry had been anxious for him to stay until they knew more about the man.

  “You’ve been in it from the beginning, seems crazy if you have to go back now,” he had said, just before they had started for Mallow’s cottage. “The Chief won’t object, if you can fix it with the Yard. Will you try?”

  Roger West was about to try.

  He had a lot on his mind; not least, the recollection of his first realisation that something was seriously wrong at the cottage. He wouldn’t forget the sight or the smell for a long time. It was the second corpse he’d seen in a few hours, but the first had hardly affected him.

  The first lay on the bench; unless the autopsy had been finished, and it was back in the morgue.

  West didn’t go straight to the police station, but to the Old Ship Hotel, not far away from it, where he and Wortleberry were to have lunch. From outside, the hotel was ugly and bare; inside, one had a sense of promised comfort and good food. An elderly porter showed him the telephone booths. He called the Yard, and was lucky: the Assistant Commissioner was in.

  The A.C. listened.

  He probably grinned.

  “I know what you mean, you’d like a nice little holiday by the seaside,” he said, gruff and apparently aggressive. “Well, stay today, anyway. Don’t upset Lord Hoole, he isn’t the easiest of Chief Constables as it is. Let me know in the morning if you think it’s worth staying longer. And have a drink at the Old Ship for me.”