Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  Before it gained any speed, Mallow jumped up, pulled his hand away, stepped on to the platform and jumped off. He kept his balance easily enough, and stepped on to the pavement.

  “Here!” cried the girl. She sprang to her feet, eyes blazing with indignation. The conductor began to grin. “Ring the bell, you grinning ape!” she spat at him, and searched for a bell push. She saw one, stabbed, then stood impatiently on the platform, staring back along the pale grey street. She couldn’t see Mallow; could see very few people. She bit her glistening lips, and gripped the rail of the bus tightly. As soon as they slowed down, she started to get off.

  “Take it easy,” abjured the conductor, “you’ll break your neck.” He held her arm, firm with authority. The road was sliding swiftly by, it wouldn’t have been safe to get off. The bus slowed down more, and he let her go. “Give him a kiss from me,” he said brightly, and as she jumped off and glared round, he added with an infectious grin: “And don’t pay his fare home if he ain’t a good boy!”

  She ignored the back chat, and hurried back towards the Law Courts. Her gaze, her expression, the very poise of her body, told of tension and strain and anxiety – the emotions which anyone who had failed Lefty Ginn might have. She didn’t actually run, but was very close to it. A man turned out of an office building, missed a step, and watched her. She took no notice. He eyed her up and down as she passed, then shrugged and crossed the road.

  She reached the Law Courts, and stared along Aldwych. Some way off, there were many more people. She stepped out smartly, but now she looked across to the other side of the Strand past the shell of St. Clement’s Church. She saw no one with bright fair hair like Mallow. At a zebra crossing she hesitated, biting her lips and clenching her hands, because she didn’t know what to do next. No one could hope to find a man in the crowds of the London streets. She moved away from the crossing, and went towards Kingsway, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, not on the doorways of the shops and offices on her right.

  So she didn’t see Mallow until he was close to her, catching up from behind.

  “Going anywhere, Glad?” he asked.

  She spun round, eyes rounded in startled relief. They were very fine eyes. He grinned at her, now, although he looked on edge. She didn’t speak, but began to breathe heavily, as if she had been running for a long time. He took her arm, as masterfully as the conductor, and gave her a little squeeze.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, when she could breathe more evenly.

  “Just doing it my way,” he said cockily. “What’s this all about, Glad? Where’s my wife, and where were you taking me?”

  “If you want to see her again—” she began.

  They were walking towards Kingsway, and people were crowding on the other side of the road, although behind them were the nearly empty streets. Mallow changed his hold on Gladys’s arm, and turned round; she had to turn with him. When they got back in step, Mallow was looking at her with a fierce kind of grin.

  “What’s it all about? Who’s Lefty Ginn?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Not now, and not at any time, if I don’t learn more about it all,” Mallow said. “I’m not going where I’m told by anyone, even if she has got a nice pair of eyes and” – he grinned – “and pretty black hair. What’s doing?”

  She said: “Don’t make any mistake about this, you mug. Lefty’s got your wife. He followed her from Hoole, and when she went to Trafalgar Square, he was there to take her away. She didn’t have a chance. I met them at Victoria, and then waited for you, we were pretty sure you two’d get together.” Every word that Gladys uttered was in earnest, now; it was easy to see that she was driven by fear of what would happen if she failed in her mission. “Now we’re going to see your wife and Lefty.”

  “What does Lefty want me for?”

  “Are you dumb?” she snapped.

  “Not so dumb as you seem to think,” said Mallow sharply. “Give me an answer, Glad, I’m anxious to know.”

  “He wants the dough.”

  “What dough?”

  “Listen,” she said harshly, “what do you think I am?”

  “I’ve been wondering,” Mallow said. His voice was easy and his manner casual; he had changed remarkably since she had first met him. There was a nasty edge to his words, but that was all, except the look of tension which he fought back.

  “So Lefty Ginn kidnapped—” He hesitated after the word, looking down at her with a touch of unbelief; then he went on: “—my wife, and you’re to take me to them. If I hand over this dough you talk about, you’ll let her go. Is that it?”

  She nodded, slowly. Her gaze was very intent, as if she was trying to find out whether he was fooling her, and only pretending to be so innocent. She read nothing at all in his blue eyes. They were red rimmed and bloodshot, and the tautness of his lips remained. It was obvious that he was steeling himself to a great effort, was forcing himself to behave calmly.

  “That’s it,” she said, “and Ginn’s—a killer. He’s on his uppers, and he’s got to get some money.” A new, pleading note crept into Gladys’s voice. “Don’t try to cheat Ginn. If you do—”

  Something happened to Mallow. He sucked in his breath, gave a little gasping sound, gripped both her arms tightly, and said harshly: “I cheat him? That’s a good one! George, that’s cool! He wants to get hold of money I haven’t got, and talks about me cheating him!”

  She tugged to free her arms.

  “Let me go!”

  “You go and tell Ginn that I wouldn’t try to do a deal with a brute like that if I had the money,” Mallow growled.

  She got her hands free, and backed a pace.

  “Listen, Mallow,” she said breathlessly, “don’t you understand plain English? He’s got your wife. He’s the kind who’d do anything to get his own way. You don’t know what you’re saying. If you don’t turn up, he—” She broke off. “I tell you he’s desperate. Everything’s gone wrong for him lately, and—”

  “This is one more thing that’s gone wrong,” Mallow said roughly, and pushed her away from him.

  He turned and strode away.

  She stood staring; and people, passing by, looked at her, saw the tense, scared expression on her face, and wondered what caused it. It was a long time before she turned round and went along Fleet Street, towards Ludgate Circus, the hill beyond, St. Paul’s, and the ruins in the cathedral’s shadow.

  Now and again she looked back. She didn’t see any sign of Mallow, but it was impossible to see in the shop doorways, or round the corner. Her feet dragged at first, but when she was near the Circus, she straightened her shoulders and began to walk more quickly, as if thinking that the sooner it was over, the better it would be.

  Roger West said laughingly: “Now don’t be a mutt, Scoop, there’s plenty of time for you to decide what to do with your life. I didn’t decide to be a policeman until I was twenty one! You’re not eleven yet. Straighten out the furrowed brow, and let’s have a laugh.”

  His elder son Martin, called Scoopy, looking nearer fifteen than his eleven years, screwed up his face, as if in dismay, and then gave a little snigger of a laugh, which came out in spite of himself. The younger Richard, watching all this, giggled almost nervously, and then announced: “I’m going to be a writer.”

  “You don’t know what you’re going to be,” Scoopy said scornfully. “Well, Dad, some of the boys know what they’re going to do when they’re nine.”

  “And I know what you’re both going to do this minute,” Janet West said. “Go to bed. And next time I tell you to be home at half past eight, don’t go persuading Mrs. Lock or anyone else to telephone and say you’ll be an hour late, or you won’t go out for a week. Off with you.”

  “Oh, Mum—” they began in chorus.

  “Boys,” said Roger, in the voice which the years had taught them to obey.

  “Okay,” said Scoopy brightly. “Come on, Richard, you ought to have been in
bed an hour ago. Didn’t he, Mum?”

  He put a large hand on Richard’s shoulder, and the two boys went out. Before the door closed, there was a giggle; next, a scuffle.

  “Oh, boys!” called Janet, “go and get your milk.”

  They went into the kitchen, and looked round the door a moment later. Richard, with milk round his mouth like smeared white lipstick.

  “Look at your lips—” Janet began.

  Richard started to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, caught his mother’s eye and ducked out. Next moment they seemed to be throwing each other upstairs, but things quietened once they were there. They could be heard moving about from bedroom to bathroom with unusual sedateness.

  “Hallo, darling,” Roger said. “Tired?”

  Janet West smiled, without much spirit.

  “So-so,” she agreed, “I’ve felt worse. But these socks get me down. It’s never ending, if it isn’t Scoop it’s Richard, and if it isn’t Richard it’s—”

  “Don’t look at me like that!”

  Janet, near exasperation, began to glare; but seeing Roger’s broad grin, she relaxed and laughed. She pulled a box of wools and cottons towards her.

  It was a quarter to ten.

  Roger had been home for twenty minutes, arriving just before the boys. Janet had been in a near crotchety mood; she always disliked being left on her own unexpectedly, and as the boys grew older, she found herself relying on them more and more for company. At the same time she found herself forced into accepting the fact that Roger would often be out in the evening. But now all three of her “men” were home, the day was over, she could put her feet up on a pouffe and relax, even though she was drawing a grey stocking with an enormous hole over a blue darning mushroom which wasn’t quite large enough to fill the hole.

  Roger sat and looked at her; there were times when he would say, quite honestly, that it was his favourite form of recreation. He hadn’t yet told her that he was likely to be called out again; that all the police of London, uniformed men and those in plain clothes, were on the look out for Lefty Ginn, Mallow, and Mallow’s wife.

  He kept trying to think if he’d overlooked anything. Once a call went out, as it had tonight, it was largely a matter of routine and luck; good luck meant that one of the men on duty would catch sight of a wanted man or woman, report, and have patrol or Squad cars on the spot quickly. Roger had hoped that there would be a message for him when he got home, but there’d been none.

  His briefcase was by the side of his chair, unopened.

  Janet, her mass of dark hair touched with grey, looked tired, but not so worn out as he had often known her. Sitting in a winged arm chair, her rose pink dress against bottle green moquette, a table lamp by her side making gossamer of her hair, she looked good; not beautiful, but just right. She had grey green eyes and a full mouth, and a figure that lacked nothing but wasn’t obtrusive. She’d made up for Roger, but her nose was a little shiny.

  The front room of their home in Bell Street, Chelsea, was pleasant and comfortable, with a lived in look. One or two pieces of furniture were beginning to get shabby. There were near threadbare patches in the carpet by the door and at the front of Roger’s chair. But the baby grand piano looked as polished and new as when it had first been given to them on their wedding day; and the curtains were bright and fresh. Richard’s battered school satchel hung over the back of a chair, and Martin’s cap was on the floor by the door.

  Janet asked suddenly: “Worried about a case?”

  “I am, a bit,” Roger admitted.

  He hadn’t told her about the train incident; with luck, it wouldn’t get into the newspapers, and there was no need to alarm her; nothing suggested that it had been intended to injure him, only to stop him from following Daphne Mallow.

  “That Hoole man?” Janet asked.

  Roger had telephoned that morning to say where he was going.

  “And matters arising.” Roger picked up the briefcase, opened it, and took out a file. He handed Janet a photograph from the top of it; Daphne Mallow’s. It was a recent one, and as studio portraits went, very good. “I was following her, and lost her at Victoria,” Roger told Janet. “I fancy she was on the way to meet her husband. One or two really bad types are involved. It would be a nasty feeling if anything happened to her, after I’d let her slip through my fingers.”

  Janet was studying the photograph; she took her time over it, the sock mending forgotten. A bump upstairs broke the almost suspicious quiet.

  “Yes,” Janet said, “she looks very nice. Do you mean to say that her husband’s a murderer?”

  “Could be.”

  Janet handed him the picture back.

  “It must be dreadful to be married to a man who does a thing like that,” she said slowly. “Especially if you’re in love with him.” There was a pause; punctuated by three bumps upstairs. “Darling, pop up and tell them to get into bed.”

  “Right,” Roger said, and got up.

  Yes, it must be dreadful to be in love with a murderer. There wasn’t yet any certainty that Mallow was a killer, but a lot of things were adding up. The most alarming was the intrusion of Ginn into the affair; it was sinister. Ginn had spent those seven years in prison for robbery with violence, but had kept out since. He’d been tried for murder, and been found not guilty, on a technicality which hadn’t fooled anyone as to the real truth of his moral guilt. He was bad; the kind of bad man who would commit any crime, have no kind of scruple, have no kind of feeling; the kind of man who might kick a dog to death.

  Roger went upstairs. One of the boys whispered something, and there was a loud creaking of bed springs, yet he didn’t smile. He was wholly serious when he said he felt a personal sense of responsibility for Daphne Mallow. He couldn’t think of anything left undone; the last thing he’d arranged, when at the Yard, was for a search to be made for Ginn’s known friends – male and female. The outlook was poor. Mallow’s wife had simply vanished, and the startling thing was that she had gone while carrying that conspicuous suitcase. But it was early yet; the call for her hadn’t gone out until nearly half past eight; it was still daylight, and there was a good chance that someone would have spotted her, and report to the Yard or the nearest station.

  The boys were in bed, sheets drawn up over their faces, only the tops of their heads showing; fun was fun, whether at seven years or eleven. Richard gave a smothered giggle. If Roger pulled the sheets down, he would probably find they hadn’t got on their pyjamas. He toyed with the idea of snatching the sheets off – and the telephone bell rang.

  As if worked by a press button, both boys turned the sheets down. Bright eyes glowed in bright pink faces.

  “Telephone, Dad!”

  “I’ve got ears, too,” Roger said. He grinned. “Now no more nonsense, either of you, put the light out and get to sleep.”

  “‘Kay, Pop!” Richard was always the cheekiest.

  “I say, Dad—” began Martin.

  “Roger!” Janet called, in a sharp voice, “it’s the Yard.”

  Her tone and the “Roger” couldn’t have said more clearly that she wished the Yard to perdition; which meant that she had some cause to be afraid that he would be going out again.

  “Coming!” He moved quickly. “Good night, boys. Mummy will be up in a minute, I expect.”

  He waved, hurried on to the small landing, and found Janet already near the top.

  “Try not to go out again,” she begged.

  “I won’t, if I can avoid it,” he promised, but that was only partly true. He reached the telephone, hoping almost desperately that this would be news, that he would have to go off at once, to see Daphne Mallow, her husband, or Lefty Ginn. “West speaking,” he said.

  “Cortland here,” said Cortland briskly. “They’ve picked Mallow up—or he picked himself up, one or the other. He’s on his way to the Yard now. I’ve told a patrol car to call for you. Okay?”

  “Fine, thanks,” said Roger. “I’ll be ready.”


  Chapter Twelve

  The Cellar

  Roger pushed open the door of the waiting room at the Yard, and saw Mallow jump. That was an indication of the state of his nerves. He was sitting in an old fashioned armchair by the window, which was open at the bottom; it looked out on to the inside courtyard, the Squad cars, and big, shadowy men always on the move. Now, it was dusk, and lights were springing up everywhere.

  Mallow started to get up.

  “Sit down,” Roger said briskly. He didn’t go farther in, but studied the man closely. The red rimmed, bloodshot, almost desperate eyes seemed to tell their own story; so did the drawn lines at the corners of the well shaped mouth. Mallow had a lean and hungry look, too. His hands drummed a nervous tattoo on the arms of the chair.

  He hadn’t yet been questioned, but had made a brief statement, saying that his wife had been kidnapped by some men he didn’t know. Roger had picked the story up as he had come into the Yard, not losing a minute; the sergeant who’d told him was still outside, on his way back to his office. It was simple enough. A policeman on duty near Blackfriars Bridge had spotted Mallow, recognised him from a description passed on by a patrol sergeant, gone to speak to him – and been startled when Mallow had come forward jerkily.

  “I’m Michael Mallow,” he had said, “I want to see someone at the Yard, urgently, and haven’t the price of my fare.”

  Ten minutes later, he’d arrived at the Yard, in a cab paid for by the policeman.

  Roger saw the nervous quiver of his lips, and offered cigarettes. Mallow took one, and a light, with restrained eagerness; he drew the smoke in as if his life depended on it.

  “Now what’s all this about?” Roger asked. “I’m Chief Inspector West, in charge of the London end of the inquiry into Anthony Reedon’s murder. Do you—?”