by John Creasey
“We’ll concentrate the search there,” Roger said. He detailed a sergeant to have two Squad cars sent to the St. Paul’s area, and then lifted the telephone as it rang sharply. “West here.”
“You’re the luckiest copper in London.” That was Lumsden’s deep voice, and he sounded only half in jest. “I’ve had a word with Mrs. Ginn that was, Handsome, Mrs. Flannery that is. She saw Ginn only a week ago, in one of his old haunts down by the river. She says she isn’t sure, but she thinks that he’s got himself a nice, regular lady friend. Name of Gladys.”
“Just Gladys?”
“I’ve only been on the job ten minutes!” Lumsden boomed protestingly.
“Like me to come and lend a hand?” Roger suggested; as he was speaking on the telephone, he didn’t need to keep a straight face.
“I’ll see you dead first! Ring you if anything else turns up.”
There was a lull; in it, Roger had time to start worrying again, to feel bitterly angry with himself. There had been just that moment of almost carefree satisfaction, when it had seemed as if everything was going right; right. Then he’d stepped off the train, Daphne Mallow had been helped down by the big, red haired man, and – disaster.
He ought to go home; he ought to telephone his wife that he would be late. There were a thousand and one things he ought to do, and none so important as finding Daphne Mallow. That was now a personal responsibility—
Brrrrr-brrrrr!
“West speaking.”
“Detective Inspector Mortimer here, sir, AB Division.” The man had a rather thin voice. “I’ve just heard about the call for Lefty Ginn, I may be able to help.”
Roger’s hopes leapt.
“Fine. Go on.”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I noticed him in the Division a few months ago, must have come off a ship. I’ve known he’s been in the Merchant Navy for a long time, away for long stretches, usually. But this time he seemed to have settled down. He had a skirt with him—a girl, sir, she—”
“I know the vernacular.”
“Yes, sir. She’s younger than Ginn is. Twenty five or so. Name of Gladys Domwell. He stays at her place sometimes, where she lives with a married sister. Can’t say I’ve seen anything suspicious, and I don’t believe in keeping at a man if he’s trying to go straight.”
Roger said mechanically: “Quite right. Where’s this married sister live?”
“At Number 111 Waterhouse Street, sir—that’s between the Whitechapel Road and the river.”
“I know,” said Roger. “Ask your Super if he minds if you meet me there—half an hour, say.”
“Oh, he won’t, sir.”
“Make sure, will you?” Roger said, and rang off.
More than enough trouble was caused by treading on the toes of Divisional seniors.
He felt an easing in the pressure; the line on Ginn had developed so quickly that they might find him before long.
Gladys Domwell’s sister was a woman of nearly forty; big, heavy, mind and body tired out by a long family, a brutish husband, and a life of struggle. She looked jaded, faded, and worn when Roger saw her; and she talked the same way. Yes, her sister had two rooms in the house. Sometimes Lefty Ginn stayed, sometimes he didn’t. More often, he didn’t. He wasn’t often there for more than a few days, and was often away for weeks. She didn’t know where he went, and she didn’t care – but yes, he was said to be at sea.
She didn’t approve or disapprove of her sister’s liaison. It wasn’t her business. Glad was twenty six, old enough to know what she wanted, and to do what she liked. Glad paid on the nail every week, when Ginn was at home, he paid also. He didn’t seem to be doing very well, though. She wasn’t sure he’d had any work for a long time. If he wanted to know, she thought that he was out of work most of the time, and Glad was supporting him, but it was none of her business.
“What does your sister do for a living?” Roger asked.
The slattern drew herself up, as if she was trying to regain a little of the pride she had once had. She would have had good eyes, if she hadn’t been so worn out; in her youth she had probably been wickedly attractive.
“She’s as honest as you are, mister. Works at Riddle’s, the glove maker’s in Whitechapel – why, she brings work home, sunnines! Go and take a dekko in ’er room, if you want to.”
That was exactly what Roger wanted.
He found nothing to help, as far as he could judge. Ginn kept a spare shirt, socks, and a spare pair of trousers here; these were old and threadbare, evidence that he wasn’t doing very well. He had practically no belongings, which suggested that he probably had another “home” somewhere else. The slattern didn’t know; or if she did, wouldn’t admit it. She was insistent about her sister’s industry and honesty, and there, in a tiny front bedroom, was a small glove making outfit, leather, cloth for lining, threads, glove moulds, stretchers – everything needed for home glove making. Gladys Domwell’s clothes, if not expensive, weren’t exactly cheap. For this district, she was doing very well; but would Ginn let himself be supported by a woman?
Roger tackled Gladys Domwell’s sister again.
No, she didn’t know whether Glad had gone to meet him tonight. He hadn’t been here for a week or more. She could not tell the police anything else.
Roger left, haunted by the thought of Daphne Mallow with Ginn. Something in the little, smelly house, in the sordidness of the district, in the half frightened manner of the slattern, told him what it was easy not to realise: the real viciousness of Ginn. It had been brought home vividly.
Roger arranged for a special watch on the house, and to be called in person if Ginn or Gladys Domwell turned up, and went back to the Yard.
Nothing else had come in; and in his present mood no news was bad news.
Chapter Nine
The Lion
Daphne Mallow did not know that anything unusual had happened behind her, as she walked with the red haired young man towards the ticket barrier. She wished she was alone. The red head was Ben Norris, an acquaintance of Michael’s, and they occasionally played tennis together. He’d talked too much on the way up, but at least he’d helped in one way: for he had talked of the body washed up on the beach, and told her the story of Anthony Reedon.
And he had told her of the body of an unknown man found at the cottage.
He hadn’t noticed the panic in her eyes when she had learned of this. She had stared out of the window, at the passing countryside, so quiet and green, with the trees showing dark against the skyline, the wheat beginning to wave. She had gone absolutely rigid, as when the telephone bell had rung; but Ben Norris had a trait which served her well then.
Provided he was talking, he didn’t mind what his listener did. She had only to make brief acknowledgments of his rhetorical questions, and look at him occasionally when she had recovered from the news of the second murder.
Now, he shortened his step to match hers, although she was striding out as best she could. He was still talking. Could they share a taxi? He was going across to Waterloo, but would gladly take her almost anywhere, he wasn’t in any hurry.
“No,” she said finally, “I’d rather not. Thank you all the same, Ben.”
“Just as you like,” Ben Norris said, “let me get a cab for you, anyhow.”
“No!”
That pierced the smug blanket of his satisfaction with himself, but did no more than surprise him.
“Oh. Oh, well, okay. Well, it’s been nice having a chat! Have to come and have a drink at the club one evening, when Michael’s back.” He gave a roguish grin. “Don’t let him stay away for too many weekends, though.”
She got rid of him.
She had noticed someone running, and someone shouting; and had overheard a man say that someone had fallen in front of a train. It meant nothing to her, but it helped, because Ben Norris obviously wanted to find out more; it was easy to smile brightly into his dull face, thank him, and hurry off.
She did not notice the man
who followed her; who took a taxi after her; and whose taxi pulled up at the corner of St. Martin-inthe-Fields, the great church with its many steps and its huge pillars making a massive oasis of the past in that field of stone. She stood close to the railings of the National Gallery, the suitcase on the pavement, and stared across at the big lion, with its Sphinx like face, which the passing thousands ignored. The nearer fountain was playing, and water splashed noisily and was continually overflowing the big basin into the reservoir below. Crowds of people were farther away, feeding the pigeons. Above her head, the starlings roosting on the window ledges and the corners of the gallery, were singing their shrill, defiant song. The pale blue sky was crystal clear. Nelson lorded it over the lions, the fountains, and the people who had forgotten he was there, few of whom knew the real meaning of Trafalgar, except as a line and a date in a book.
Michael wasn’t in sight, and she’d better cross the road. She had expected to be able to see from there, but couldn’t.
He wasn’t there, so at least she hadn’t kept him waiting.
The suitcase was so heavy that she wished she’d left it at the cloakroom at Victoria; Ben Norris had made her forget. She felt so much more conspicuous, carrying it. A lot of men eyed her, and she could almost read their thoughts, it wouldn’t be long before one asked if she would like some help.
She had never been more anxious to manage for herself.
She gripped the case firmly, waited until the traffic was brought to a stop by the lights, and then, with fifty or sixty others, surged across the road. Her case knocked against a man’s leg and a girl’s knee; the look the girl gave her was a tale of the agony of laddered nylons. She flushed. The crowd sorted itself on the other side, some going one way, some another; she was almost alone with the case as at last she approached the big lion.
Pigeons strutted on the pavement, picking at some crumbs left there and forgotten. A boy and a girl came hurrying, met, kissed, hugged, and went off hand in hand. Daphne looked in all directions, but still couldn’t see Michael.
Why wasn’t he here?
A youngish man with fair hair came hurrying across the road, only his hair showing at first. Daphne moved forward, eagerly, only to see a complete stranger.
She did not really notice anyone else, and the man who sidled up to her, after she had been there three or four minutes, took her completely by surprise. His voice came from her side; she just hadn’t noticed him. It was a clipped, hard voice, and when she looked into the flabby, unshaven face, she saw hardness, too. Cruelty?
“You Mrs. Michael Mallow?” he asked.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Have you—?”
She stopped, in sudden horror. This might be a detective. She might have undone everything in that one crazy “yes”. She stared with eyes which were suddenly bright with fear into the pale face.
“I’m a friend of his,” the man said.
She didn’t believe it; but at least she felt reasonably sure that he wasn’t a policeman. He was too short, for one thing; she was taller by at least two inches. He was shabbily dressed, and badly needed a shave; a down at heel type altogether. Could Michael be friendly with—?
“He can’t get here,” the man said. “Wants you to come with me.”
She began: “He can’t—” and then let her voice trail off.
She stared into the cold, grey eyes of the shabby man. She didn’t like the look of him, but he knew that she was to meet Michael here, so he might be telling the truth.
“It’s not far,” the shabby man said. “Let me take your case.”
He didn’t smile. She smelt strong, offensive tobacco on his breath. His hat was stained and very old, and his voice was almost like one which had been hardened like steel; it didn’t grate, but wasn’t really smooth or free.
He picked up the case.
“Why—why can’t he get here?” She didn’t want to go, but knew she would have to. “What’s happened to him?”
“Nothing, lady,” the man said. “He’s doing all right. He daren’t risk being seen, that’s all. If you want to help him, better hurry.”
What was there to do, but go with him?
He was already moving away, towards the National Gallery, and the one way road which led past it. The lion, the square, and everything on it were now behind her.
Michael was behind her, too, on the other side of the square, hurrying.
The shabby man stood by the kerb, still holding the suitcase, and watching traffic as it came surging towards them from traffic lights farther away and out of sight. He was looking for something; Daphne didn’t know what. She saw his thin, almost colourless mouth, the lips pressed tightly together, and the hardness about his features and his skin. He was small but compact, and she thought that he was probably very strong.
He raised his hand suddenly, and whistled; the whistle was loud enough to startle her.
A taxi turned towards them.
“Inside,” he said.
He opened the door before it stopped, and when she was inside, dropping on to the seat, he swung the suitcase in as if it was a handbag, and followed swiftly. The case had weighed her down. He sat on the edge of the seat, and glanced out of the window. Then he hitched himself forward, to speak to the driver.
“S’n Paul’s,” he said sharply. “I’m in a hurry.”
He didn’t move from the edge of his seat, but seemed to stay there deliberately. Yet he couldn’t hide the Square from Daphne; she glimpsed part of it. She wasn’t really looking for anything; the lion seemed to draw her gaze, and she moved her head to catch sight of it.
The taxi stopped, as the lights changed.
The man by her side shifted his position so that he blocked more of the window; then she knew that he was trying to stop her from seeing out. His face was very close. In the darkness of the old, box type taxi, it looked not only hard, but sinister; his eyes seemed to glint. She felt her breath coming in short, frightened gasps.
“Wha—?” she began.
The cab lurched, the man swayed, she was able to see out of the window, and was looking straight at the bronze lion.
Michael was there!
She opened her mouth to cry: “Michael!” but before she could, before she had time to be frightened of this man, to begin to understand the significance of what had happened, the man’s hand closed harshly over her mouth. He pushed her back against the seat, snatched at her right wrist, and gripped it tightly. It was like being gripped by a steel spring.
“If you ever want to see him alive again, shut your mouth,” the shabby man breathed. “Don’t make any mistake. You could get yourself hurt if you’re not careful.”
The taxi was speeding towards the Strand, leaving the lion and Michael behind. The shabby man took his hand away from her mouth, but still held her wrist; and although he wasn’t hurting, she knew that at the slightest whim, he could twist it and cause her agony.
“Do what I tell you, and you’ll both be okay,” he said.
He didn’t let her go.
She didn’t cry out, but only stared, too overcome by the new fears to think.
Michael Mallow did not see his wife getting into the taxi. The fountain and the lion hid her and the shabby man from sight. Staring at the spot where he had told Daphne to meet him, he did in fact see the taxi passing, and the shoulder, neck, and the shabby hat of the man who was blocking the window. That was all. He stopped, a yard away from the lion, and looked about him. A clock in a corner building, by the Strand, said ten past eight; anyone who caught the six thirty from Hoole ought to be here by eight o’clock, or just after.
He had tried to time his arrival perfectly, so as to avoid waiting, and so making himself conspicuous; he hadn’t dreamed she would be late, or suspected for a moment that she wouldn’t wait.
He stood still, with the traffic swirling, crowds of people making sudden surges across the road, while the huge red buses, the large and the small cars and the lorries and vans waited with snarling impatience
, and seemed to shout as they leapt forward whenever a light turned green.
Mallow wore a light raincoat, in spite of the warmth of the evening, and it made him look conspicuous; many men were in their shirt sleeves, some carrying coats over their arms. His hair was almost too fair; usually it stood up like a mop of fine wire, but now it was forcibly flattened with water and brilliantine. His good looking face was set in lines of anxiety which took the handsomeness away. Strain showed at the corners of his full lips, at his blue eyes. He couldn’t keep his eyes still. A cigarette at his lips was drooping a little, and there was a pale brown stain on his upper lip, from the nicotine of a dozen cigarettes smoked in the past few hours.
He began to pace to and fro, scanning the Square and Whitehall. Once he started to walk towards Whitehall, but turned back, muttering.
He hadn’t been away from the lion for two minutes, but when he got there, a girl was waiting.
It wasn’t Daphne, or anyone remotely like Daphne. She had glossy black hair, worn in a page boy bob, and bold brown eyes and a figure which no one could sneeze at. She was made up more than most London girls, and that, as well as something in her manner, gave her a kind of boldness; she was almost brazen. She smiled at Mallow, a faint, sneery kind of smile, which nevertheless had invitation in it. He stared intently; it was his habit to stare at women, especially young women. He sensed something about this one which was different from many.
He turned abruptly, to look back at Whitehall. Daphne would be bound to come by taxi. Victoria Street first, then Parliament Square, into Parliament Street, along Whitehall – there was nothing to take a taxi more than ten minutes, and now it was almost half past eight.
He let the cigarette drop, trod it out, and lit another; the packet was almost empty.