by John Creasey
“Waiting for someone?” the girl asked casually.
He looked round at her sharply, and his expression became aloof, disdainful.
“Not interested,” he sneered.
Although he turned away, he caught the beginning of a broader smile on her painted lips. She didn’t come much higher than his shoulder, but the slanting sun glistened on that beautiful, jet black hair; as black as Daphne’s, and much thicker and more naturally wavy.
“You will be,” she said.
He started, and swung round on her.
“What’s that?”
“You will be,” she repeated.
“Will be what?”
“Interested.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying that you will be interested in me, Mike,” she said. Her voice was throaty and not at all displeasing. “You’re coming with me.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak, just stared as if the truth were dawning on him slowly. She seemed genuinely amused. Suddenly, she put an arm through his, and drew him towards her.
“Let’s get away from here, it’s too public,” she said. “Your wife’s gone ahead of us, she’s with Lefty Ginn. Know Lefty?”
“I—no! Who—who is he?”
“You’ll find out,” she said.
Chapter Ten
Lefty Ginn
Lefty Ginn did not know whether he would succeed in getting away with Mallow’s wife until they were actually out of the taxi and walking near St. Paul’s Cathedral across the land which had been devastated, and was not yet built up. In the warm evening, with the sun shining across and casting the huge shadow of the great dome, Ginn walked with Daphne along a narrow street, with brick walls on either side, no higher than their waists.
Ginn kept a hold on Daphne’s arm with his left hand; and carried her suitcase. It seemed to be as light, to him, as a bag of feathers. He walked briskly, and because she was being forced along, partly by her own fears and partly by the thrust of his arm, she went quickly. They were in step. The pavement on which they walked rang clearly to their footsteps.
Behind them was St. Paul’s.
About them were the deep recesses in the ground, all brick or concrete walls of what had been cellars and basements of old office buildings and of shops which had once clustered about the churchyard as thickly as combs in a beehive. Then, the narrow streets with their smooth, tarred surfaces had been dark and crowded and pulsing with the life of the city; now, the cellars were open to the blue sky. Where rat and beetle, house spider and mouse had lurked furtively, birds now nested, bees hummed from wild flower to wild flower, and grass grew long, waving whenever there was a breeze. Here and there stood the skeletons of buildings, one of which had been only half demolished, and which was unsafe. It was towards one of these that Ginn led the girl. A few temporary buildings, squat, square, and ugly, stood amid the desolation. Here and there, too, flowers had been planted and gardens made.
Ginn did not quicken his pace; and Daphne couldn’t free herself. She was frightened; only the thought of seeing and helping Michael kept her going.
Ginn knew that a number of people noticed them, but none was near enough to see the contrast between her smartness and his shabby, threadbare clothes. There was a line of buildings, not far from Holborn, a few floors of which were still serviceable; and beyond them, the ordinary buildings of the city which had escaped in the great fire. The noises of traffic came clearly, although it was from the City, not from the West End. Few people were about, and Ginn’s sharp, hard eyes were watchful all the time.
He reached a high wall which had been shored up by heavy timbers. It led to a basement now open to the sky, with wild flowers and grass growing between cracks in the concrete base, and at the corners. In the shadow of the brooding wall, which had a sign painted in crimson, saying starkly, danger, was a flight of stone steps. Near this was an old boiler which had provided central heating.
“Down there,” Ginn ordered.
For the first time, Daphne drew back.
“Where—where are you taking me?”
“He’s hiding here,” Ginn said. He didn’t smile; he didn’t look as if he would ever have much time for humour. “Go down.”
“No! I want to see him. I—” She tried to free herself.
Ginn dropped the case, knocked her behind the knees with his right foot and, as she crumpled, lifted and carried her down the steps. He moved as easily as if he were carrying only her clothes, and so swiftly that she hardly realised what had happened.
When they were at the foot, he put her down, and said: “Stay there, and don’t shout, or I’ll cut your throat.”
He went back for the suitcase.
The edges of the basement were a foot or more above her head; when there had been a floor above, there had been room to stand upright down here. There was no easy foothold, no way for her to climb up, and – Michael might be here. The one easy way up was by the steps. Ginn was angled against these for a moment, then against the sky. He leaned forward, snatched the case, and swung it over. Then he turned and ran down, his footsteps making the only sound. The world was silent and cut off, down here, and she had never been so afraid.
If she screamed—
His eyes frightened her.
“Come on,” he said, and gripped her arm just above the elbow, urging her forward towards a corner.
She could see only the scorched brick, but there was more. He prised open a loose brick, then used a key; and part of the wall opened, as a door. Big steel hinges groaned and creaked. He held the door open with his foot, and thrust Daphne forward roughly, into a black void.
“No!” she cried.
But it was too late. He pushed her, and she went staggering. The floor was even and she did not fall, just steadied herself, her lips still parted but no cry coming now. The only light was from behind her, and that was being cut off. Ginn’s shadow was cast, black and long, upon the floor; and then it was blacked out as the door closed and there was no light at all.
“Oh; please let me out of here,” Daphne begged. “Let me out of here, please, please.”
He didn’t answer. She heard a sound which she didn’t understand. She dared not move. Then something scraped, and abruptly there was a blessed relief; light in this awful blackness. He had a petrol lighter with a big flame, all black and smoky at the top; the kind of light that ordinary petrol would give. He carried this to a candle stuck in a beer bottle, and the candle caught slowly. He let the cap fall on the lighter. The candle flame was very small, and grew smaller, until it looked as if it would go out. Then gradually it lengthened and the light grew bright.
She could see his face, with all the deceptive flabbiness, and the gimlet like eyes. She made herself look away from him, and saw the old mattress in a corner, the blankets which turned it into a bed, an upright chair, several boxes, and newspaper cuttings stuck to the wall, most of them pictures of girls in swim suits. Near the ceiling was a ventilation grid, with a piece of brown paper tacked over it, so that light couldn’t show outside.
The door had a heavy iron lock, a big key, and several bolts. She didn’t know that it had once been the basement vault of a bank, that the walls about it and the floor above were two feet thick, and as nearly soundproof as anything could be. The only risk of sound escaping was at the door.
In one corner was a cupboard; once a strong room within the vault.
“Sit down,” Ginn ordered.
She didn’t move.
“I don’t want trouble with you,” Ginn said flatly, “you don’t matter to me, get that into your head. It’s your husband I want, and the money he took from Reedon’s place. But so long as you’re here, do as you’re told. I don’t like having to tell anyone twice.”
She backed to the chair, and sat down. She kept her knees very close together, although there was nothing personal in the way he looked at her. He tipped his battered hat on the back of his head, and took a small green packet
of cigarettes from the pocket of his old raincoat. These were Woodbines. He lit a cigarette, put the packet back, but didn’t blow out the smoke, either through his mouth or his nostrils; it was as if he absorbed it all as he breathed in.
“Now you’re here, you stay here until I’ve got what I want,” he said. “And that’s all he’s got.” There was a brief pause; then: “Know where he’s put the money?”
“No!”
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t know anything about the money. I don’t know what he’s done!” She broke off, staring at the man who stood and watched her sceptically, with the cigarette smoking in the corner of his mouth, only slightly red at the tip. “I tell you I don’t know! He telephoned me, said I was to meet him at—at Trafalgar Square.”
“You’ll meet him some other place, if he behaves himself,” Ginn said coldly.
He moved towards her.
She cringed back, although he didn’t raise a hand, did nothing to suggest that he was going to strike her. He didn’t strike, but put a hand down and lifted the big handbag off her knees. He slid the long strap handle off her shoulder, and then walked away, nearer the candle. Sideways to her, he began to empty the bag; and every time he took something out, he glanced at her.
The candlelight flickered on his eyes.
Purse; compact; the envelope with the fifty one pounds in. He opened this, peered inside, and then slowly drew the money out. He flipped the wad against the heel of the thumb of his other hand, and for the first time a little, reluctant smile made his thin lips move. He put the bag down, and counted with the deliberation of a bank customer who doubted the cashier’s accuracy. He uttered the numbers aloud, although only a whisper sounded in the strange sanctuary.
“Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine …”
“Forty nine, fifty, fifty one.”
Now his lips were parted slightly; obviously he was deeply pleased. The candlelight shone on to his face when he turned to face Daphne. His mouth seemed empty of teeth; the mouth and the face were mask like, now, horribly unreal with the unreality of evil to a person who was mostly good.
“Where’d you get this from?”
“It—it was sent to me,” Daphne gasped.
He didn’t comment on that, but moved towards her, nipping the wad against the heel of his thumb; that made the only sound. He drew within a yard of her. He was still smiling, but with the candlelight behind him, his face was one dark shadow. Only his eyes glinted.
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’re lying to me,” Ginn said flatly; the smile vanished altogether, like a light being doused.
“Oh, I’m not,” she cried, “it’s the honest truth. It came by post, this morning, I don’t know who sent it. Mike said he had to have some money, so I put it in my bag.”
Something she said then didn’t please him. In spite of the shadows, she saw his expression change. He stood motionless now, without flipping the notes or making any sound, just looking into her eyes. She thought she had known fear before; she had known nothing like this, nothing like the terror which seemed to turn her blood to water, to leave her limp and helpless and completely at this man’s mercy.
“Say that again,” he commanded.
“I don’t know who sent it!” she sobbed.
“Say it all again.”
“I don’t know who sent it, that’s the honest truth! It came by post, I don’t know who sent it. Mike said he had to have some money, that’s why I brought it.”
She knew that she hadn’t repeated the exact words, and she believed that he was trying to torment her, was only interested in making her suffer. She was surprised when he moved away; too surprised, at first, to be relieved. He began to flip the notes again.
“When did he say he had to have some money?”
“When he telephoned, this afternoon!”
“He say anything else?”
“No. I mean, not about the money, he was scared, he—he wanted me to bring my passport, he—” She couldn’t go on.
He turned back to the handbag, and took out the rest of the contents. The only question he asked was about the other money; ten pounds in her purse, fifteen in an envelope which Micklem had given her. He seemed more satisfied. He seemed different, too, as if something had happened to make him think, and to make him brood.
Except for the money, he put everything back. He tucked the money into a dog eared wallet, and stuffed that into his coat pocket. Then he took the cigarette from his lips; it had become just a blackened stub. He dropped it and trod it out.
“That’s a start,” he said, “but there’s a lot more to come. When Mallow arrives, he’s going to tell me where he put the rest of the dough, and why he can’t get at it. He won’t leave this place until he does; neither of you’ll leave.” Ginn’s lips parted in that empty mouthed smile. “Be as good as a mausoleum, won’t it?”
At the Yard, Roger West went through everything recorded about the case; it didn’t amount to much. He paid most attention to a despatch which had been sent by special messenger from Hoole, with a brief covering note from Wortleberry. Most of it confirmed the results of Bradding’s quick search of the house, and the fact that Daphne Mallow had fainted.
The gist of Netherby’s letter was quoted, and Bradding had given the address of the London office of Mildmay’s: 27 Butt Lane, Holborn. He’d better go himself, in the morning. He didn’t like the idea of having to sit back and wait until morning for anything, but couldn’t help himself. If Gladys Domwell didn’t turn up, someone at Riddle’s, the glove makers, might know where she was; even that was worth a visit.
He checked to make sure that everything was being done, and decided to go home. That presented a different kind of problem. He’d put off telephoning his wife, and she would be peeved; not seriously, but just enough to make it necessary to be in a good, resilient humour when he got back. He ought to have telephoned her. Now, he would have to steel himself to put up a show until her first phase of ill humour was over, and probably soon after that he would find himself telling her all about Daphne Mallow. His wife was the only person he knew who might have some idea of the personal responsibility he felt towards Daphne Mallow.
Chapter Eleven
Gladys
For the first few minutes after the girl had slid her arm through his, Michael Mallow didn’t speak. He moved slowly, as if he hated the thought of going with her, but couldn’t stop himself. Traffic lights hampered them; when they were about to cross, a cyclist beat the lights and drove them and a dozen others back on to the pavement. By the time the shouting and the indignant muttering was over, the lights had changed again. This time, the girl looked up at Mallow’s face, and said tartly: “We’re going to cross the road. Get it?”
He gulped, and nodded. They crossed the road, first to the National Gallery, then after a pause to the steps of St. Martin’s. A stream of people was moving towards the bus stop at the far end of the iron railings about the massive church. A bus passed, and several people started to run for it; the girl didn’t. She kept her arm in Mallow’s.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“For a bus ride.”
“Are you taking me to see my wife?”
“Yes, but don’t tell the world about it.”
“Where is she?”
“I’ll show you.” They had reached the bus stop, and another bus drew alongside. She glanced up, said: “This is it,” and gave him a little push.
He got in, and went inside. The bus was nearly empty. He dropped on to a seat near the entrance, and the girl sat beside him. She sat closer than she need, and slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently. Her shoulder and her leg pressed against him, too, and she looked at him with mingled pertness and mockery.
The conductor held out a hand.
“Fares, please.”
Mallow put his hand to his trousers pocket, then gulped, avoided the conductor’s eyes, and turned almost d
esperately to the girl.
“I—I didn’t bring any money with me.”
“Well, Mike, fancy that,” she drawled, and took her hand away from his arm. She carried a small, shiny green handbag, opened it, and took out a shilling. “Two to St. Paul’s,” she said, and then very rapidly changed her mind. “No, two to The Bank!”
“Make up your mind,” the conductor said.
“Say that again, and I’ll give you a piece of mine,” the girl said tartly.
The conductor stared; then winked. She smiled, quite free from malice. She had nice teeth and a nicely shaped mouth. Mallow noticed that as he noticed most things about women. She gave him the tickets, and said: “Gladys won’t pay every time, honey.”
“I—I’m sorry. Silly of me,” he said. “Sorry.” He settled back against the seat, then groped for her hand; she looked surprised, and all other expression left her face. He squeezed. “Glad, what’s all this about?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No, I don’t get it,” he said, as if genuinely puzzled. “Where’s Daff—Daphne,” he amended quickly. “My wife.”
“Gone for a little walk with Lefty,” the girl said softly.
“Who is this Lefty?”
“Why don’t you dry up? We don’t want to tell all the bus,” she said, and obviously she felt nervous. “You’ll see soon enough, and if you do what you’re told, everything will be hunky dorey. Just sit back, and relax.”
Mallow moistened his lips, looked at her, stared for a moment at her glossy black hair, then stared out of the opposite window, at the passing crowd and the shops. They were passing the Strand Palace Hotel, where a commissionaire was talking to a newsboy. The bus was held up for a moment. The newsboy’s handwritten placard said:
TWO SEASIDE MURDERS
Mallow glanced furtively at the girl, but the furtiveness served no purpose, she was looking at him, her shiny red lips twisted, the smile was nothing like so attractive now. He looked away. They started off again, stopped at Aldwych, and then swept on until they were outside the Law Courts. Here, the Strand and Fleet Street’s narrow roadway were almost deserted, the long stretch of Fleet Street itself had only half a dozen cars in it, very few pedestrians, no policemen on duty. The bus was nearly empty, too. The tall, grey, stone buildings of the Law Courts were safe behind their locked and bolted gates. The bus started off smoothly.