Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  “What’ll you have, sir?”

  Chatworth chuckled.

  That was a good sign, West reflected as he rang off. The “what’ll you have” hadn’t been flippant, but had been asked so as to test the A.C.’s mood. He didn’t really feel sore, or suspect that West had seen a chance of taking it easy for a day or two.

  Chatworth got queer ideas, sometimes.

  Now the ball was in Wortleberry’s hands. The local man felt sure that he could “manage” the Chief Constable; probably by the middle of the afternoon West would be here officially.

  One man, dead in the sea, with his skull smashed in.

  One man, dead in the cottage, with his skull smashed in.

  At least one inescapable piece of material evidence; the bundle of notes, pointing to a possible motive for Reedon’s murder – but had he been killed or was he the killer? It was too early to speculate about the second murder.

  Mrs. Mallow’s nervousness; her fears; her eagerness to hide the one pound notes; her sudden onslaught of dread when he’d let her know that Reedon might have been the victim of violence. Michael Mallow, a friend of Reedon’s, known to be short of money, and away for a long weekend, which Wortleberry had said was unusual.

  One of the biggest enemies of the police was lost time.

  West didn’t leave the box, but put in another call to the Yard, and this time asked for Detective Inspector Turnbull.

  “Having a nice time, Handsome?” The voice from London was deep, and the tone half mocking.

  “Just up your street. Two bodies.” West said. “I want you to find out what you can about a Michael Mallow, a traveller for Mildmay’s, the office equipment people. Thirty ish, fair haired, good looking, blue eyes, weighs about twelve stone. He lives down here at Hoole. He’s supposed to be on a job in Scotland, but I doubt it. There’s an inquiry in from Hoole already—but this is a special for me. If he’s not in Scotland on company business, I’ll get a photograph.”

  “Right. Any idea what it’s about?”

  “Just work on that, will you?”

  “Okay,” said Turnbull. “Have a good sleep.” He rang off.

  Roger went briskly across to the police station, and arrived almost at the same time as Wortleberry, who stepped like a carelessly made giant, almost more freak than man, up the police station steps.

  “Tell you one thing,” he rumbled, as they reached the shadowy main hall. “I’m having Daphne Mallow watched. Sorry, she’s a nice kid, but that money’s got under my skin. Sure she did have pound notes?”

  “Positive.”

  “What I want is an excuse to get a search warrant,” Wortleberry said. “Any ideas?”

  “Just let her know she’s being watched, and see if it worries her,” West said. “And find out whether her husband has really been away since last Monday, or whether she was lying about that. If she lied, and I think she did, it was about the husband.”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” Wortleberry announced solemnly. “When we have a chat with Mallow, we’ll learn more than we know so far. I’ve a good chap watching his wife, anyhow.” He turned into his office. “We’ll have a wash over at the Old Ship. Gor! I’m famished.”

  “Anything in about that bicycle?” West asked.

  “Eh? Don’t you ever feel hungry?” Wortleberry sorted papers. “Ah. Just a routine report—sand on the tyres from the top of the cliff, Mrs. M.’s prints—they assume so, we’ll check—and that’s about all.”

  “No other prints?”

  “A man’s. No reason why a man shouldn’t ride his wife’s bike.”

  “No,” agreed West, and grinned. “Well—check with neighbours if Mallow’s been seen this weekend, on the bike or in his car. Check if car—”

  “It’s all being done,” Wortleberry said. “Come’n eat.”

  Chapter Six

  The Watcher

  Daphne Mallow looked out of the window, at five o’clock that afternoon, and saw the man.

  She had never seen a man standing along the road, like this, until today. He was doing nothing. He was tall, lean, and rather ugly, wearing a pale brown suit and a hat with a big brim.

  The watcher kept looking towards the house.

  Twice in the past two hours, he had left the spot where he stood most of the time, and had walked right round White Villa. He’d just strolled casually, and Daphne had caught sight of him among the trees at the end of the garden, hands in pocket, cigarette in his mouth. He hadn’t said a word, and hadn’t been nearer than fifty yards away from her at any time; yet the sight and the thought of him caused that fear to rise again, like a smouldering fire blazing up. When he was out of sight, she felt as if he was able to see through the walls of the house into the room.

  First, Michael’s fear and flight.

  Then the waiting.

  Then, suddenly, the two policemen, including one from Scotland Yard, and the way the Yard man had looked at and questioned her, and left her with her heart pounding with inexplicable fears because of the implication about Tony.

  Now, the watching man.

  She was not positive that he was a policeman, although she felt sure.

  She felt – suffocated.

  Every window in White Villa was open as wide as it could go. The scent of the flowers, the smells of the grass and of the countryside, came in with all their richness, and should have soothed her; instead, every little sound scared her. The angry hissing of a bluebottle, swooping about and then smacking against the window, was enough to make her jump. The flight of a bird across the window would make her spring to her feet. She did not know that it was the accumulation of fear; that her nerves had started to go to pieces on the morning when she had woken to see Michael packing. That had been a shock, and she’d had no chance to recover from it.

  She wanted to scream: “Where is he?”

  She wanted to talk to someone whom she knew; her mother, perhaps, or Tony, but she daren’t go away, she had to wait here to find out what happened next.

  Where was Tony?

  She sat close to the window in a small armchair, with some knitting in her hands; she was only making a pretence of knitting. The wool and the half made garment were soft white, to feed the hope which she always had for a child. She gave that no thought, now. Whenever she looked up, she could see the man.

  He moved.

  Her heart began to beat fast, and she started to get up, then dropped back into her chair.

  The man was coming nearer.

  She heard the sound of a car engine, not far off, and immediately she thought of the police, not of Michael. It seemed as if Michael had walked out of her life when he had gone out to the garage.

  The man slouched past the house, looking in at her, making sure that she knew that he was watching; and then, while she tried not to stare, the telephone bell rang. She swung round, with a sudden flurry. She knew that it might be anyone, a friend, a tradesman – Michael. She jumped to her feet and darted across the room, standing at first with her back to the window, as she snatched up the receiver.

  “Hallo! Mrs. Mallow here.”

  “Is that Mrs. Michael Mallow?”

  It wasn’t Michael. She felt as if her knees would collapse under her. She leaned against the wall, and that way, was sideways to the window.

  “Yes,” she said, in a husky voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mallow,” said the man, in a brisk voice. “This is the Daily Comet. I’m sorry to worry you on such a matter, but I would be grateful if you could give me a little information about the late Mr. Anthony Reedon. I understand that he was a close friend of Mr. Mallow’s.”

  She didn’t answer.

  She was hearing just one phrase over and over again. “… the late Mr. Anthony Reedon.” She felt herself quivering. Then she saw a movement in the garden, and gasped, turned her head, and saw the tall man walking towards the front door.

  “Are you there, Mrs. Mallow?” the Daily Comet man demanded.

  “I—I don’t understa
nd you,” Daphne gasped. “Mr. Reedon—Mr. Reedon can’t be dead. I don’t believe—”

  She stopped, knowing that she wasn’t making sense; realising that a London newspaper would not make a mistake. The late Mr. Anthony Reedon. “I’m sorry,” she said chokily; not really knowing what she was saying. “I can’t stop now. Goodbye.”

  She put the receiver down.

  The front door bell rang.

  She stood near the telephone for several seconds, and then some hard core of strength came to her rescue, and she straightened up and moved towards the hall. She must not behave like this. She must get a grip on herself. She must talk to someone; Mother, of course. She felt better when she opened the door, although she didn’t feel well. She was simply determined to put up a better show.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mallow.” It was the watcher. He had a Sussex burr and a soft voice, and somehow couldn’t make himself look anything less than friendly as he stared at her. The sinister, watching figure just became a man. “Is Mr. Mallow home yet?”

  That attacked her new resolve, but she fended it off.

  “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t.”

  “Has he telephoned?”

  “No,” she said; and the feeling of suffocation grew worse.

  “You haven’t heard from him?”

  “No!” The moment she shouted, she wished she hadn’t. The friendly eyes of the tall man in front of her looked just a little embarrassed, and yet he gave the impression that he was satisfied. “No, I—I’m sorry. I mean, why do you want to know? Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Officer Bradding, Mrs. Mallow.” The caller took a card from his outer breast pocket so quickly that it was like sleight of hand. He thrust it in front of her, but didn’t seem to expect her to take it. She glanced down. It was too close to her eyes, and she had to back away a little. All she read were the words: New Scotland Yard. “Do you think Mr. Mallow will be back tonight?” the tall man asked.

  “I—no. Well, I don’t know. I—”

  “If he comes, telephone the police station at once, won’t you?” asked Bradding. “It’s very important.”

  “Why?” she breathed.

  He looked really sorry for her. He stood with his hat in his hand, and his head held back, his grey eyes narrowed and his broad face set in a funny kind of half smile.

  “A personal matter,” he said. “Sorry to worry you, Mrs. Mallow.” He made to put his hat on again, and then lowered it: “When did he last see Mr. Anthony Reedon, do you know?”

  She didn’t answer. She wanted to turn away from him, go in, slam the door in that smooth face with its false friendliness. Yet she knew that if she did, it would be folly. The shock of that “the late Mr. Anthony Reedon” still lay harshly upon her.

  “I—I’ve told the others, it—it was a week last Thursday. We went up to have a drink. We—” She was clutching the door, actually hurting her fingers. She stopped, and then blurted out the question which tormented her. “Is it—is it true that Mr. Reedon’s dead?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Detective Sergeant Bradding, in his slow voice. “There is a suspicion of foul play.”

  Daphne’s grip on the door was very tight for a moment that followed; it was as if the door was her only means of support; if she let it go, she would collapse. Every muscle and every nerve in her body seemed to go tight, and to hurt. Her teeth clamped against each other, her lips felt rigid.

  Suddenly, she went limp.

  Bradding saw what was happening, stepped forward, and slid an arm round her. She fell against it. He had to hold her tightly, to keep her up; she was a very pretty, very shapely woman, in a dead faint.

  Bradding gave a funny kind of shrug.

  He put his other arm beneath her knees, lifted her bodily, and carried her into the bright red and white room, with its small recesses and flowers growing on the walls. A long, crimson couch was drawn diagonally across the French window, overlooking the big back garden. He laid her on this, and stuffed a cream coloured cushion beneath her dark head. He unzipped her skirt, then the girdle beneath it, and moved away quickly.

  Her pulse wasn’t bad. If he left her, she might be out for one minute; or for five, and come to no harm.

  In two minutes, he had opened every drawer in this room, and found nothing he wanted. The unconscious woman hadn’t moved, and he couldn’t hear her breathing. He slipped out of here into the small dining room, where there was a writing bureau in fumed oak; the furniture and décor were as modern as the other.

  There were books that might be worth a study, but the thing he was looking for was a wad of pound notes. He saw the letter from Netherby at Mildmay’s London office, skimmed it through, and made a mental note of the address.

  He passed the drawing room door on his way to the kitchen, listened, and heard nothing. The kitchen was a house wife’s dream; there wasn’t any hint of a smell of frying or cooking, of fruit, spices, or vegetables.

  On the glass fronted cupboard which served as a dresser was a large, red handbag. How the woman loved red! Bradding opened it quickly, and looked inside. Nothing was there. He hunted round, peering behind packages and tins.

  He found the wad of notes behind some sugar.

  Bradding left White Villa twenty minutes later, full of apologies, telling Daphne to get in touch with the police if she felt worried. Looking round at her from the garden gate was like looking at a ghost. She was closing the door. Bradding didn’t stay there long, but hurried towards the end of the road. Another man, who hadn’t been in evidence before, moved out of the shadow of some trees to speak to him.

  “How is she?”

  “In a bad way. Watch her closely.”

  “Right,” the second man said. “No one’s certain that Mallow was in the car that left Saturday morning—several people heard it, but that’s all.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Bradding said.

  He didn’t say anything about the letter from Netherby, and all it implied.

  Bradding walked another hundred yards, and then went to a parked car. Two minutes later, he was on the way to Hoole. Twenty minutes later still, he was in Superintendent Wortleberry’s room, where Roger West was already officially installed at a borrowed desk, with telephone, typewriter, and everything he needed except elbow room.

  Bradding reported, and added: “I took some specimen numbers, so that we can get some idea when the notes were issued, sir.”

  He handed over a slip of paper.

  “Fine,” West said, and looked at Wortleberry. “So if he went to Scotland, it wasn’t for Mildmay’s. If you can spare a man, we’d better have his wife watched all the time, night and day. Avoid letting her know it from now on. We’d better have her telephone fixed, and listen in. If she posts a letter, get it before it leaves Hoole—can you fix that with your postmaster?”

  Wortleberry said: “No, but I can fix it.”

  West found himself warming to the ungainly man.

  “Fine! We just want to stop any letters addressed to her, and see what’s inside them. Then check on the relationship between her and Reedon. If Mallow is the killer, it might have been for the money, or it might have been jealousy. Anything is guesswork at this stage.” He knew that sounded prosy. “Then we want a call out for Michael Mallow.”

  “Any publicity yet?” asked Bradding.

  “Better keep it in the family for the time being. We need to check on Mallow’s movements, his work, whether he’s in more serious trouble than a few hundred pounds worth of debts and a couple of tenuous girl friends.” West paused, and added unexpectedly: “His wife’s in for a rough time. The quicker it’s over, the better for her, as well as the rest of us.”

  The other two nodded.

  Daphne watched the tall man reach the front garden gate, and then turned away. She closed the door with a snap, but didn’t notice it. Her head ached dreadfully, and she felt parched. She had insisted on getting up from the couch, but as she made her way towards i
t, she staggered; she felt that if she could reach it again and stretch out her legs she would stay there for an age.

  It was very quiet.

  She could remember the smiling face of the man from Scotland Yard, with his local dialect and soft voice and his smooth manner. She felt no hatred towards him; just a dread of things she did not understand. But she could put two and two together. Michael’s flight, and the police interest in him, and Tony’s – murder?

  She shivered, uncontrollably.

  The detective had put a glass of water on a small table near the couch. She picked it up and sipped. Cigarettes were near, too; she lit one, but it tasted harsh and unpleasant on her dry mouth, and she soon stubbed it out.

  She longed for a cup of tea.

  She got up, ten minutes after Bradding had gone, and went slowly into the kitchen. She felt as if she were in a curiously unreal world, as if all these familiar things were a long way off, and not really hers. Mechanically, she put on a kettle, then set a tray for tea, took a biscuit tin out of the glazed dresser, and then stood looking over the stainless steel sink into the back garden. Lawns, flower beds, a few fruit trees, the little woods at the back. She did most of the gardening, Michael only bent his back to it now and again, without enthusiasm. The lawn wanted cutting; that was something she could do.

  The kettle began to boil.

  She spun round. Tony was dead, perhaps murdered: Michael had run away.

  She could scream. She was standing here and thinking about the grass when terror was so close.

  She made tea.

  She decided to take it into the drawing room; she would be more comfortable there. Since the faint, her legs and arms felt weak, as if she had undergone some great strain, and was exhausted. She was half way towards the room, seeing the slanting sun striking one of the red chairs and making it a blazing crimson, when the telephone bell rang again.

  She started; tea pot, cup, saucer, biscuit tin, spoon, sugar, and milk jug, all bounced on the tray. A trickle of tea came out of the spout, and a splash of milk appeared, bluish on the green glass surface. She quickened her pace. The bell rang again and again with long and urgent calls. She put the tray down, on a chair. Then she stood looking at the telephone, telling herself that it might be the police; or another newspaper; or a curious neighbour; and telling herself that she couldn’t talk about it to anyone, now.