Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  He heard the scream of a whistle, the rumble of a train.

  Chapter Eight

  The Yard Gets Busy

  Roger West hadn’t a chance to save himself.

  He had been close to the edge, so as to get round the man; as he was pushed, he saw the glistening metals of the rails, the flints between the wooden sleepers, the sleepers themselves almost black with oil. He was falling head first. All he could do was bring up his arms to save his head, but banging his head wasn’t the cause of dread.

  The deafening whistle seemed just behind him, splitting his head in two.

  Pheeeeeew!

  Head cradled in his arms, he hit the track. Pain jolted through one elbow and shoulder. He sprawled on the rails. He heard the screaming whistle and felt the sleepers and the very ground itself trembling as the locomotive came hurtling towards him. What thoughts he had were fragments; it wouldn’t come fast into the buffers, the driver must have seen him, he’d brake. But West knew better. He snatched his arms away from his head, and started to scramble to his feet, but it would take time; and the locomotive was almost on him, a massive monster of iron and steel, hissing steam, whistling, screeching, brakes squealing. He hadn’t time to get to his feet. On his knees, he did a kind of scrambling run, then flung himself forward.

  The noise was thunder in his ears. He waited for the impact, for the pain, for the crunch of his bones. He felt something very hot, close to his face, then the wind of the passing loco, then a completely new sensation: he hadn’t been crushed, hadn’t been touched.

  His body flopped.

  For a second he lay face downwards, not knowing that his feet were only inches from the wheels of the train which was drawing into the station. He fought for breath; shock itself was enough to kill, and he had never seen death come closer. Then, with sudden new alarm, he realised that a train might soon come in on this line. Spurred by that fear, he looked right and left, but the track was quite empty. It was a gleaming line of rails in one direction, with buildings a long way off; and the great roof of the station, the buffers of this line, and the platform in the other.

  The train had stopped, and the only sound now was of the escaping steam.

  He pulled himself to his feet.

  This was an end platform, and no one was on it. The carriages and the locomotive hid people from the other platform. He stood up, and leaned against the edge of the platform, still breathing hard, arms folded, head limply on them. He hadn’t yet the strength to climb up, but he was already feeling much better; so much so that he could worry about Daphne Mallow.

  But not for long.

  The long, empty line of the platform, broken only by a few wooden seats, advertisement hoardings, and several heavy crates obviously waiting for the next train, was suddenly disturbed. Men appeared at the far end, by the ticket barrier, and began to run; three appeared first, others followed until there was a crocodile of them, in double and single file; most were porters, although some were in ordinary clothes. West knew what they wanted, what drove them so fast: fear for him.

  He took his arms off the edge of the platform, and waved. They didn’t check their pace, but waved back, and in a few seconds they were hauling him up, saying they couldn’t believe it, that he ought to be dead.

  He had only one question in his mind, and put it swiftly: “Did you catch the man who did it?”

  There was a sudden, complete cessation of the mutter of voices; all expressions of delight and relief ceased at once. The grimy men stared at him, and every face had the same kind of startled expression.

  “No one did it,” one of them said. “It was an accident.”

  Roger West sat at a desk in the station master’s office, opposite the assistant station master in his navy blue uniform, gold braided cap, and dignity. Two clerks and one porter were also in the office. Roger had the telephone at his ear, and was tapping his toes impatiently on the floor. It was ten minutes since he had been hauled up; fifteen or more since the girl had escaped, and he still wasn’t through to the Yard.

  Then a girl said: “Scotland Yard, can I help you?”

  “This is West—who’s in the Chief Inspectors’ room, now?”

  “Mr. Cortland, sir.”

  “Put me through, please,” Roger said. Cortland was a good chap, and he wouldn’t lose any time. “Hallo, Corty, Handsome here. Have you seen anything about that Hoole job?”

  “Just looking through it,” Cortland said. “The local chap’s sent a mass of stuff, including photographs of this man Mallow, his wife—”

  “Mrs. Mallow?” Roger broke in eagerly.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Cortland. “Deaf?”

  “Funny stuff later, please,” Roger pleaded. Bless Wortleberry for sending that photograph! “That girl’s in London. She arrived at Victoria at seven forty five. She had a big yellow case with red corners. We want her, just as soon as we can get her. She’s probably meeting her husband, either or both of them will do. His car’s a Vauxhall, blue, note up there about it already.” He paused, and then went on much more slowly: “Don’t hold her until she leads you to him.”

  “For Handsome West, you’re nearly incoherent,” Cortland said dryly. “Had some trouble?”

  “I bumped my funny bone,” Roger said. “Thanks, old chap. I’ll be along soon.” He rang off.

  The assistant station master had a worried, wrinkled look, the two clerks were gaping, the only man who seemed to take this in his stride was the porter. He said emphatically that he had been close to West, and was sure that West had been pushed. No one else seemed to have seen that. The porter was short and young, with very wide shoulders and big hands and feet. He carried his peaked cap; a deep ridge on his forehead showed that it was a size too small.

  “I can hardly believe—” the assistant station master began.

  “I know, nor can I,” Roger said, and grinned at the porter, proof that he felt much better. His elbow hurt a bit when he moved his arm, but that was nothing that massage and rest wouldn’t put right, and it was his left arm. It wasn’t pleasant to think about what might have happened, but he was in a hurry to get away from here. “Still, the chap tripped and pushed me. Do you mind getting your station police busy, and finding out if anyone else saw it?”

  “I shall do that at once, of course, but—”

  “Oh, ’e was pushed,” asserted the porter, his Cockney accent so rich that it seemed affected. “The chap who did it was wearing a mack and a trilby, too. He just gave a side kick, and then bumped the gentleman wiv’ his shoulder. It was all over in a tick.”

  “Did you see his face?” asked Roger.

  “Never had a chance,” the porter said, “but I can tell you one thing, guv’nor. He had holes in the soles of his boots.”

  “Boots?”

  “That’s right, old fashioned boots, all wrinkled,” said the porter. “Down at heel and wiv’’ oles in the soles. ’Oles,” he repeated, and an enormous grin spread slowly over his ugly face, “in his soles!”

  “Like to come along to the Yard with me, and make a statement?” Roger asked briskly.

  Blue eyes glowed. “Wouldn’t I!” said the porter, with delight. “That’s if it’s okay with you, sir.”

  He looked at the assistant station master as if to say that this was one invitation that couldn’t be overruled.

  “Of course, of course,” said the assistant station master.

  There was something about Scotland Yard in the evening that it didn’t have by day. A kind of expectancy; a feeling that anything might happen at any moment. The continual movement of the Squad cars was somehow more exciting than it was in broad daylight. The figures of men in the courtyard looked bigger. In the building itself, few of the clerical staff were on duty, but active C.I.D. men were on the move all the time. Every telephone call might be significant. The administrative offices were all closed, but the executive departments were kept busy: Ballistics, Finger prints, Records, Photography – these and a dozen others
were fully manned. One could get any fact one wanted without delay. In an odd way, everything seemed to happen more quickly. The footsteps on the stone floors sounded louder, bells more shrill, voices held a note of suppressed excitement.

  Roger left the porter, one Charles Sullivan, with a sergeant and a uniformed policeman in a waiting room, busy with his statement, and hurried up to the Chief Inspectors’ Room, which he shared with four others. Cortland was still there. Roger’s desk, one of the five painted and varnished a biliousy yellow, was in a corner by the window overlooking the Embankment. The window was open a few inches, and the noises off the river and from the Embankment came in. Big Ben, only a hundred yards away, boomed as the door opened. Instinctively, Roger looked at his watch; it was half past eight.

  Cortland, a bulky man in a suit of grey so dark that it was almost black, raised a big hand.

  “Funny bone all right?”

  “The real damage was to the railway line I banged it on,” Roger said mildly, and ignored Cortland’s comical start of surprise. “Nothing in about the Mallows, I suppose?”

  “Not a thing, except that Mallow didn’t pick his wife up in their Vauxhall.”

  Roger’s eyes sparkled.

  “Found it?”

  “On a parking site, Enfield way—been there a couple of days, almost out of juice. Don’t ask me why it wasn’t reported before, I’ll have someone’s skin. We’ve got it at the garage, now, giving it a going over.”

  “Might be a help.” Roger didn’t sound hopeful.

  “We’re checking the cabs, we should soon know who took the dame from Victoria,” Cortland went on. “Did you say—?”

  “Between ourselves, yes, but I lied. I don’t like the chap who did it, though. Booted and down at heel with holes in his soles!” Cortland looked positively shaken. “Did you have any word from Finger prints about that chap we found in the cottage?”

  “Haven’t heard yet,” Cortland said weakly.

  “You probably would have if there’s been any luck,” said Roger almost glumly. He pulled out his chair and sat at his desk, looking through the mass of papers on a tray marked: In and another marked: Pending. He slid one or two sheafs of papers out, but left most of them where they were. “Sorry if I’m brusque, but beneath my bright facade I’m feeling sore.” He lit a cigarette. “Have a look at the situation for me, will you, you’re fresh to it. Reedon, now suspected of an old burglary, murdered and thrown into the sea. There’s no doubt he was injured before he went into the water, the blows on the head were almost certainly caused by hand.” Roger was still looking through the papers he’d sifted from the mass. “At his cottage, the second man was lying dead. Judging from the condition of his clothes, he’d obviously made a hole in the loft, where we found a bundle of one pound notes. There had been a lot of other bundles there, and a box with sharp corners – we found scratches; so, a metal box. Can’t think why he left one bundle, unless he heard someone downstairs, and went down. The position of the body makes it possible that he was struck on the back of the head as he reached the foot of the stairs, and turned the wrong way – for him. He was killed by blows over the head, with a heavy article – could have been taken from the walls of the cottage. No trace of it, anyhow. It looks as if he lifted the hoard from the secret hiding place, and then a third man killed him and lifted it in turn.”

  “This Mallow?” asked Cortland.

  “Dunno. Haven’t found Mallow’s prints there yet. Still, it looks that way.” Roger went into more detail, and then finished his sorting. “I’m going to take this home with me, if I get home at all tonight,” he said. But he didn’t move. “Look at this angle, Corty, and tell me if I’m crazy. I followed Mallow’s wife. Nice, simple job, I could have done it with one eye closed. She’d be conspicuous in any crowd. But someone also followed me. That someone presumably was on that train, had been at Hoole, had noticed and followed me, and meant to make sure that I didn’t catch up with her, and so trace Mallow.”

  Cortland nodded his comprehension.

  “Who’d want to follow her, who’d want to find Mallow, and why?”

  Cortland scratched his big jaw.

  “Supposing there were two chaps at the cottage, in the first place, one to do the job, the other to keep a look out. Supposing Mallow knew about one, dealt with him, and then went off with the boodle. The chap on look out would know he had it, and go after him. If he didn’t know where Mallow had gone, he’d wait for his wife to make some move, and follow her. And if he’s got a record he’d have recognised you, and wanted you out of the way.” Cortland paused. “That what you’re thinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity,” said Cortland, with a grimace. “But you’re not crazy yet.”

  Roger grinned.

  “Thanks. So we’ve built up a nice theory, that someone is now after Mallow to get the money. Whoever it is didn’t mind pushing me in front of a Kentish Special, so he won’t mind a little violence.”

  Cortland said: “Oh,” in a heavy way. “I see.”

  “I think I’ll get along to Finger prints,” Roger added, and jumped up on the words. “If Dalby brings in the porter who’s making a statement, tell him to buy the chap a beer, and charge it to me, will you?”

  Cortland said: “Okay, Handsome.”

  He watched with brooding eyes as Roger left.

  He was a man with twenty five years’ experience at the Yard, and was acutely sensitive to atmosphere. It wasn’t exactly presentiment; it was more a kind of short cut, almost subconscious reasoning. Given the circumstances which Handsome West had outlined, then more violence was not only a probability; it was almost certain if things went wrong with the bad men.

  Cortland knew that West sensed and was probably oppressed by the risk. He also suspected that West saw some other factor he hadn’t yet talked about; had seized on some piece of evidence which gave him a fresh slant.

  The door closed.

  Roger went quickly up to the next floor, and tapped at the closed door of Finger prints. The tap was cursory. The two men in sight, at a desk surrounded by tall shelving filled with files of papers, looked up. One went on with what he was doing, the other gave a broad grin. The night man in the Department, known as Fingers, had the roundest face of any man on the Force, and it was as red as a turkey’s coxcomb.

  He raised a hand, and made a circle, by putting his thumb and forefinger together.

  “Hi!” he greeted.

  “Hi,” said Roger almost mechanically. “Sorry to see you’re overworking. Had any luck with those prints sent up from Hoole?”

  Fingers raised the other hand and did exactly the same thing. His grin was still very broad.

  “Yes,” he announced. “Just got round to it. You’ve got a nice job on your hands, you have.”

  Roger felt as if he had been kicked; felt his heart contract and then start to beat very fast. You could be a policeman all your life, and still have that happen.

  “Who’s the dead man?”

  He could picture that body, with the bloodstains and the gnawed cheek and hands, the fingers hardly touched on the left hand.

  “Chips Silver,” Fingers announced. “Remember Chips? He got ten years for attempted murder, his luck was that the man he attacked didn’t die. He didn’t work alone, though, did he?” Fingers appeared to be enjoying himself; and Roger saw that and saw something else, which sent his pulse beat to a new high level. “He worked with Lefty Ginn, and they don’t come any worse than Lefty. You’re after a killer all right, Handsome.”

  The evening seemed to chill.

  He was after a killer.

  And the killer had been after Daphne Mallow, at Victoria.

  Not all the resources of the Yard could make sure that the woman was safe, if Lefty Ginn was after her. And Ginn would be, if he thought that she could lead him to her husband and what was left of the hoard of money.

  The call went out at once: at all costs find Ginn. He hadn’t been inside for many years, and nothi
ng had been heard of him at the Yard lately; it was as if someone long dead had come to life again. Men on the Force who remembered him in his heyday had to think hard even to remember his friends and associates. There was no known address.

  One or two whispers came in: that he had been seen at Camberwell lately; at the docks; that he had joined the Merchant Navy; that he was seldom in England. Roger West collected the scrappy reports, and tried to form a picture. No one at the Yard or at CB Division – in one of the most squalid parts of the East End, and near Ginn’s old home – would admit for a moment that Ginn could have reformed.

  “If he’s out of one racket, it’s because he’s found another that pays off better,” burly Superintendent Lumsden of CB said to Roger over the telephone.

  “Sure he’s not been around lately?”

  “I’d know if he’d been within a mile.”

  “What about his family?”

  “His wife left him years ago—after she’d shopped him for cruelty to their two children.”

  “Is she still living in your alley?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “We’ve got to try everything,” Roger said. “Sorry, Lum. Have a word with her, or send one of your smarter chaps, will you? Ex-wives have a way of getting to know a lot about their formers.”

  “I’ll try anything once, for you,” Lumsden said.

  Roger rang off. Other reports were coming in, and two were unexpected; that someone looking like Ginn had been seen near St. Paul’s. St. Paul’s wasn’t reckoned to be a district for the Ginns of London, even after the great fire of 1941 had laid waste so many acres. Yet the reports came in quick succession; one from a sergeant once in CB now stationed in Holborn; he’d seen Ginn, and reported it, a note was on the station records.

  It was.

  Within ten minutes, a third report came in from a policeman usually on duty near the steps of St. Paul’s. He was young, keen, and had a memory that would probably take him a long way. He’d never seen Ginn, only a ten year old photograph. Roger hadn’t seen him, either, and didn’t even remember seeing a photograph – he had just heard of Ginn’s reputation. But the St. Paul’s duty man was sure that on two or three occasions lately, usually just before dusk, he had seen a man answering Ginn’s description passing St. Paul’s, as if he was heading for Holborn across the devastated land.