by John Creasey
There were the coarse red hairs. He had a hazy picture of a man with red hair, somewhere in this case. If he worried over it too much, he’d only irritate himself and probably drive the recollection farther away. He put it out of his mind.
Had Mallow telephoned Ginn, offering a deal?
Was the man who had followed Mallow one of Ginn’s men? He might be, but it was also as possible that he was a Fleet Street man; there were at least three who would enter into the spirit of a job thoroughly enough to pose as newspaper sellers.
He ought to go back to the office. There were a hundred things he might be doing. This wasn’t the only case, and this wasn’t the only angle. But he didn’t want to go. He stood looking on at the slow, deliberate pace of the searching police. Wortleberry was still with the newspapermen, but they were no longer talking. The three boys, not yet in their teens and probably playing truant, were still running about the rubble, occasionally hurling stones at the empty windows of the wall marked danger. It was astonishing how often the stones soared through; only occasionally did they smack against the wall.
Roger joined Wortleberry.
“Know of a man with red hair in this case?” he asked. “A friend of Reedon’s or a friend of Mallow.”
“Eh? Red hair?”
Wortleberry, not expecting the question, needed time to think.
“Fairly long hair for a man, very coarse.”
“Well, hm, yes, I should think so,” Wortleberry said calmly. “Pal of both of ’em, if it comes to that. Man named Norris, rather a big fellow, with—” Wortleberry broke off, gasping.
Roger waited for it.
“Big fellow with big hands,” breathed Wortleberry. “Biggest hands I’ve ever seen on a man. Got a grip like an elephant’s trunk. Ben Norris. Gor’ this is a turn up—”
He broke off again, and then looked almost ludicrous. “Where’s he come in, then?”
“Red hairs at the cottage.”
“Gor’,” breathed Wortleberry. “Can I speak to my office on that radio thing?” He was already lumbering back towards the car. “They could pick up a set of his dabs.”
“Speak to the Yard, they’ll send your message.”
Roger nicked on the walkie talkie, and Wortleberry, leaning into the car with his great posterior still outside, picked up the receiver and proceeded to give absolute and precise instructions.
“Ask my chaps at Hoole to go and see Benjamin Norris, in the High Street. Ask him where he was on Friday night. All friendly. Just get his answers. Set of his prints, too. Let me know at the Yard, please.” He put the walkie talkie down quickly, almost as if he were afraid that it would shock him. “That all right?” he asked. “Thanks.”
“Tell me more about Norris,” urged Roger.
“Runs a wholesale stationery and office equipment business,” Wortleberry said. “Good customer of Mallow’s, too, they’ve been friends ever since they came to live in Hoole. Not a good type, though, talks all the time—when I knew Mallow was friendly with him I started to have doubts about Mallow. Better get back to the Yard, hadn’t we?” Wortleberry asked, and then gave a shy grin. “Truth about me is, I’m not happy if I haven’t got a comfortable chair and a telephone handy.”
“We’ll get straight back,” Roger promised.
He didn’t explain that a man named Norris, with a stationery and office equipment shop in Hoole, had provided the key evidence of Mallow’s frauds.
They got into the car, and he was about to turn left when he saw that a big van was holding up traffic in the one way street leading to Ludgate Hill. He went along another narrow road, and then turned right, towards Holborn and the shored up shells of buildings.
He passed the stone throwing boys, the unsafe walls, and within fifty yards of Daphne Mallow, who was a crumpled heap on the floor of that dark hole; the scarf tight, her breathing shallow, her pulse very slow.
They’d been back at the Yard for ten minutes when a message came from Hoole.
Norris had travelled up to London on the six thirty train for the previous evening, and had stayed the night; he’d not told anyone where he would be.
He was still away, and hadn’t sent a message.
Of course – a red haired man, talking to Daphne Mallow on the platform!
The red haired man named Norris, moving his big, bulky figure very fast, went into an empty house at Clapham Common, with an order to view in his possession. He was not interested in the house as a proposition, but in Lefty Ginn, who was to meet him there.
Ginn was already waiting.
He stood erect and grim, with his flabby, grey yellow face looking very unhealthy, his eyes narrowed as if the light hurt them. He had one hand in his trousers pocket, a half smoked cigarette in the other.
Norris began to talk.
“Listen, Lefty, what’s the game? Why d’you come out into the open, asking for trouble, isn’t it? Why don’t you lie low, and let me—”
“Shut up,” Ginn said.
“But Lefty, it’s asking for trouble, and—”
“You’re asking for trouble,” Ginn said in his hard, grating voice. “Mallow isn’t out yet, but I think he will be. He’s bound to ‘phone you for help. You meet him, and make him talk. Got it?”
“But we could have fixed all this by telephone, Lefty! I don’t see why—” The spate of words came swiftly, always in full flood.
“I wanted you to understand I won’t take any double crossing, from you or anyone,” Ginn said.
“Me? Double cross you?” Norris gave a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t dare to, Lefty, wouldn’t want to, anyway.”
“You’ve got a chance to prove how loyal you are. Make him hand over the dough.”
Norris gasped: “I can’t make him! If he won’t—”
“If you can’t get it, bring him here.”
Norris spluttered, but didn’t argue.
When he went off, he kept looking round at Ginn. It was almost as if Ginn suspected that he, not Mallow, had taken the money.
Norris didn’t feel at all good, but somehow he would have to bring Mallow here, he daren’t fail Ginn.
The messages from Detective Sergeant Appleby, an astute, self effacing man whose genius for following suspects without being suspected had helped to keep him down to sergeant’s rank for over twenty years, came in over a period of two hours and nine minutes. They reached the Yard by devious means; some Appleby telephoned himself; two came through patrol cars which he stopped, and which flashed radiotelephone messages to the Yard; two came from policemen on duty whom he or Oddy stopped. One came through the conductor of a bus on which Mallow travelled, with Appleby a few seats behind him.
The most significant reached Roger on buff memorandum forms on which all Yard messages were relayed throughout the building.
11.58. After leaving the Yard Mallow went to Parliament Street. From a cafe on a corner of Cannon Row, he was followed by a small man, name not known, who was obviously interested in him. Mallow turned towards Trafalgar Square.
12.21. Near Trafalgar Square the small man who had followed Mallow caught up with him and spoke. I was too far away to overhear any part of the conversation. Mallow appeared to be angry. The other man left him. I decided not to send Oddy to follow this individual, but to make sure that we didn’t lose Mallow. Description of short man follows …
Once the description was out, it was flashed to all police stations; but it was so nondescript that no one expected results.
12.48. Mallow, still obviously greatly agitated, is on top deck of a Number 15 bus, heading towards the City and Aldgate. I am on lower deck. Oddy is following in a taxi.
1.14. Mallow is approaching a small cafe at the corner of Widclaw Street, Whitechapel. He now appears to suspect that he is being followed. I have accordingly fallen back, and Oddy is now closer to Mallow.
1.26. Mallow has been in the cafe for ten minutes, sitting at a table on his own, without ordering food or drink. He appears to have told a waitress that he is wai
ting for a companion.
1.34. A big, red haired man dressed in a pin stripe brown suit is now sitting with Mallow at the cafe, and both men have given an order. They appear to be on bad terms.
1.59. Mallow and the red haired man have left the cafe together, and, still on bad terms, have hired a taxi and are about to get in. Taxi is a blue Beardmore, pre war, registration number 8V234. Am following. Have requested nearby patrol car to follow also.
2.27. Mallow and red haired man now walking across Clapham Common. Mallow looks acutely distressed. The men are not speaking to each other. Have requested a Divisional Sergeant to have local men watch Mallow and his companion.
2.40. Mallow and his companion have entered the grounds of a private house which has a “For Sale” board up in the front garden. A wall and overgrown bushes hide the lower part of the house from sight. Am endeavouring to maintain close observation from a neighbouring house.
2.49. Mallow has left the house, alone, looking extremely agitated. I am following.
2.54. Red haired man has been found in grounds of the house, with the back of his head smashed in. Death appears to have been instantaneous.
2.59. Mallow has been detained and is being brought to the Yard for questioning.
Mallow’s appearance had been bad enough before; it was dreadful now. His eyes looked as if it hurt to keep them open. His aggressiveness only spurted up occasionally.
He was in the charge room at Cannon Row, with Roger, Wortleberry, and a Yard sergeant. It was now nearly four o’clock. There had been no news of Ginn, and none of Mallow’s wife, none of the man who had followed Mallow from Parliament Street. They knew, now, that the dead man was Ben Norris of Hoole; Wortleberry hadn’t needed a second glance.
Norris’s fingers were very big and flat; his prints had been at Reedon’s cottage, and on the envelope in which the fifty one pounds had been sent to Mallow’s wife.
“Do you think I don’t know what’s going to happen?” Mallow said, in a choky voice. “I’m going to be tried for murder, and found guilty, and hanged. But I didn’t kill him. I haven’t killed anyone. Ben said he had news of Daff, and wanted to meet me at this cafe in Whitechapel. I had to go, I had to. For Daff—”
Roger said quietly: “How did he get in touch with you?”
“I telephoned him at his hotel.”
“How did you know where he was staying?”
“I knew he was coming to London this week, he always stays at the same hotel, out at Cromwell Road. I wanted to borrow some money. He said he’d see what he could do, and told me where to meet him.”
There was a long, edgy pause; and then Roger changed the whole tempo, voice, eyes, manner, seemed to join in the eruption.
“You’re lying, as you’ve lied all the time,” he said roughly. “You killed Norris.”
“I didn’t! I swear—”
“He knew you killed Reedon, so you lured him there and smashed his skull to pieces.”
“It’s a lie!” screeched Mallow.
“You’ll be hanged for it if you don’t tell us why you bolted from Reedon’s cottage. Come on, out with it.”
There was another pause, so taut it was like a balloon being blown up bigger and bigger.
Then: “You’ll never believe me!”
“Try us.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“You’ve got plenty, before you hang.”
“You’ve judged me already, you think I’m guilty.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you’re guilty or not. I want to find your wife.”
That pulled Mallow up sharply; the hissing intake of his breath was like the escape of steam from a tight valve.
“That—that’s your job, you’ve got to find her.”
“To find her, we’ve got to find Ginn. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I’d never heard of him until yesterday. I swear—”
“Save your breath. Where can we find Ginn?”
“I don’t know!”
“If I had my way, I’d use the cat on you until you were raw,” growled Roger. “Remember your wife? She’s a nice girl. Pretty, nice figure, everything that—”
“Shut up!”
“Where’s Ginn?”
“I don’t know!”
“He’ll kill her.”
“I don’t know where he is. Can’t you—can’t you see what happened?” Mallow sobbed. “Ben Norris said he could help, Ginn must have found out we were going to meet, and gone and killed him. I’ve been framed again, I—” He stopped.
The silence was like the hush after a clash of cymbals. Mallow backed away, slowly. Roger eyed him with a steady, accusing stare.
The sergeant looked up from his notes. Wortleberry rumbled and shifted his feet.
“So Ginn was going to frame you again,” said Roger softly. “When was the first time?”
Mallow didn’t answer.
Roger rasped: “So that’s how fond you are of your wife. Let Ginn have her, and do what he likes with her. Reward for love.”
“Don’t!” gasped Mallow.
“She loves, and she trusted you.”
“Don’t keep talking about my wife!”
“Where’s that photograph of her, Super?” asked Roger. “The coloured one. Did I give it to you?”
Wortleberry began to feel in his breast pocket.
Mallow choked: “I—I don’t know where Ginn is, I swear I don’t. That’s why I wanted to—to see Norris. To find out, and go to Ginn. I’ve never—I’ve never met Ginn. Honest to God, I haven’t. It—it was Norris who—who framed me. He knew Ginn.”
Roger had relaxed, and was offering cigarettes. Mallow took one, broke in his hoarse story for a light, and went on, more chokily than ever: “I—I’ll tell you what happened, everything. It’s—it’s my own crazy fault, if I hadn’t put so much on the gees—well, I did.” He looked about to collapse, and Roger pushed a chair up; he dropped on to it. “I needed some money, I’d got into debt. I—I told Norris. He put me up to—to a few wrinkles. Getting commission in advance, fake orders, things like that. I thought I’d win my money back, I didn’t mean—” He broke off; there were tears in his eyes.
Roger waited.
“I just couldn’t get out of debt,” Mallow went on. “I’d borrowed a hell of a lot from Tony Reedon, hadn’t the nerve to ask for more. Then—then Norris told me he’d get me some if I’d help him. I was to ask Reedon for more, to—to go and see him at the cottage on—on Friday night. Midnight.”
Roger still didn’t speak.
“I didn’t know why,” Mallow went on, “but—but I had to. Norris said he’d tell the firm about those forged orders if I didn’t. So I went there. Someone hit me, before I got to the cottage. I—I went out, like a light.” He licked his lips, and was silent for several seconds; it seemed like minutes. “When—when I came round, the lights were on in the cottage, and—and I went to see what was—was up. I thought there’d been—been a burglary. I went in, and there was a—a man coming down the stairs. Big man, with—with a sack. Green sack, like—like sacks for registered letters.” He licked his lips again, noisily. “He—he pulled a knife. I went for him, there was—was a ghastly struggle, and I—I would have killed him, if I could, but—but I didn’t.”
“Who did?” Roger asked quietly.
“I swear I don’t know. Someone crept up behind me, and hit me over the head. I went out again, and—and when I came round, there—there he was.”
“The same man?”
“Yes.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he—his head was smashed in.”
“See anyone else?”
“No.”
“Norris?”
“No one.”
“The green bag?”
“It was gone.”
“See Reedon?”
“No!”
There was another pause. In it, Roger took a whisky flask from his hip pocket, and offered it. Mallow first looked as if he couldn’t
believe his eyes, and then grabbed.
He gulped whisky down.
“Easy,” said Roger, and took the flask. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Mallow didn’t answer.
“Let’s have it all, Mallow.”
“I—I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
“You mean, you hoped no one would know you’d been to the cottage. That it?”
“I—”
“Is that it?”
“Yes,” muttered Mallow. “I was crazy with fear. Crazy. I came up here, and phoned Norris. He said he’d come to town, told me where he’d be staying; that’s really how I knew where to phone him.”
“What did he say?”
“He said—he said Ginn wanted the money.” Mallow stretched out trembling hands, and looked into Roger’s face. “I don’t know anything about the money. Norris said it was in the green bag. Money and jewels, from an old robbery. He said Tony Reedon was really a crook named Rawson, who’d pulled off a big haul and—and kept it in the cottage. Norris said Ginn was after it, Ginn knew about the burglary years ago, but Rawson disappeared. Then he—Norris, the swine—recognised Tony. Norris used to be a fence, a—you know. He told Ginn, Ginn planned the raid on the cottage. I—I’m pretty sure they wanted me there to—to kill Tony and frame me.”
There was another pause.
“Did you know that Reedon was dead then?” Roger asked softly.
“No! Don’t twist everything I say. Norris told me he was, I put two and two together.”
There was a long pause, while Roger considered. This might be true; there was no way of telling.
Roger said quietly: “This man coming down the stairs, the man you say was killed while you were knocked out. Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I’ve told you—no.”
“Mallow, did you kill that man?”
“I swear I didn’t,” cried Mallow, and he began to sob.
There wasn’t much more to get out of him. Between gasps and sobs, he said that he’d slept in his car the first night, and in a third rate hotel the following night, all the time terrified of being recognised. He gave the name of the hotel, and the name he had used: White.