Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  “Er—reaction, I expect,” Roger made himself say. “Bit of a shock for us both, wasn’t it, Geo—what is your name?”

  “Stop kidding,” the boy said.

  That made Roger stop to think about him at a time when he didn’t want to. He wanted to face the ugly fact that there was no sign of Daphne Mallow, only the suitcase and the closed cupboard door. He wanted to open the door, and search thoroughly. He had honestly forgotten that they were buried here; and his manner had eased the boy’s fears.

  “See if you can get that suitcase open,” he said, almost roughly. “I’ll try that door.”

  He went forward; and it was hard to say why he went so slowly; or seemed to. He was suffering from shock more than he had realised. He saw the boy move towards the suitcase, and bend down. He saw the odd pieces of shiny leather, and the glove mould. He ignored that as he went to the door, gripped the metal handle, turned, and pulled. If it were locked …

  It opened.

  His shadow was cast over Daphne Mallow, where she lay in a heap on the floor.

  He stood utterly still.

  “Blimey!” breathed the boy, “a bloody corpse!”

  She was alive.

  She lay on the blanket bed, now, belt loosened, shoes off, clothes piled up on her. Her pulse was very faint. It was impossible to judge how long she would survive unless she had medical help. The air here was foul, even now that the dust had settled. Her mouth and lips were raw and sore from the scarf which Roger had cut away. Her wrists were badly chafed by the cord.

  Would they be here for hours or for a day?

  How long could she stay alive?

  With the gentle candlelight shining upon her, something of her beauty showed, although her sore lips were slack and her forehead lined and her eyes had great dark shadows beneath them. It was hard to believe that she was breathing.

  The boy asked hoarsely: “Is she going to peg out, mister?”

  “Not if we can save her,” Roger said.

  It was then exactly five o’clock. The illuminated dial of his watch wasn’t damaged, they would be able to see the time in the dark. The candle wouldn’t last long – it mustn’t be allowed to burn much longer, anyhow. Suddenly, he found himself moving away from Daphne Mallow as she clung to life. He had a lot of other problems. How to keep alive, for one thing, and give their rescuers a chance.

  “Listen, George,” he said, and then stopped arid stared into the bright eyes, and put his head on one side. “This time I mean to have an answer,” he said firmly, “no fooling. What is your name?”

  The boy said: “Stop kid—”

  Roger gripped the jutting ear.

  “Come on, let’s have it.”

  “But you know it!” the boy squealed. “It’s George—George Smith. Why, you keep calling me George!”

  Roger let him go.

  It was impossible not to laugh, although the sound was more like a giggle. That did him good. He lost another two minutes, getting on top of himself, and then began to treat George Smith as he would have treated Martin or Richard, in like circumstances; as he would an adult.

  “Now, listen. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here. It may be for several hours. It’s a small room, and pretty stuffy already—and no fresh air’s coming in: follow me?”

  “Could die from lack of oxygen,” George said promptly. “Like they nearly did on Everest.”

  Roger blessed him.

  “That’s right. But if we do everything slowly, we’ll conserve the oxygen. The way to make it last longest would be to go to sleep, but there are several things to do first—but slowly, see. Don’t rush about. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Fine. Look round for more candles, matches, and food, will you? There’s a kettle over there, and a bucket—see how we’re fixed. I’ve got a job to do too—must find traces of Ginn, and see if he’s left anything here.”

  “You mean, jewels or something?” George was eager.

  “Could be.”

  “Blimey,” George breathed again.

  He would be all right for a little while, but the first hour wasn’t the problem for any of them; not even for the unconscious woman. If there were some sound from outside, some indication that men were working already, it would help; there couldn’t be so many tons of stuff in one wall, could there?

  Both moved very slowly.

  Roger found more pieces of leather – mostly black glace kid, but there was some pigskin and some plain brown glove leather. Apparently Gladys Domwell had done quite a lot of work here, too; that was one way to show your love for a man. And he’d killed her as callously as he would kill a rabbit. Roger could remember the little frightened squeal, then the falling of her body. He tried to shut both out of his mind.

  He could hear George busy with water, and smelt methylated spirits; he glanced across at the corner, where the boy was holding up a bottle. One problem was to keep the boy moving at half speed.

  “Got a spirit stove and plenty of water, some grub, too, we can hold out for days,” George whispered almost scornfully; for the moment, apparently, he had forgotten the unconscious woman and his fears. But he hadn’t. “Think a cuppa tea would help her, we’ve got some.”

  Roger said: “It would be a good idea if she wakes up, George.”

  He couldn’t be sure that anything would help Daphne Mallow, short of fresh air, and a doctor; and he had to fight against his fears for her and for themselves – fears fed by the silence.

  Why weren’t they making some noise outside?

  Then, rummaging, he found some sheets of notepaper and some envelopes; they were headed Mildmay Ltd., Stationery and Office Equipment, 27 Butt Lane, Holborn, E.C.2. Not far from here.

  What was Ginn doing with Mildmay stationery?

  Roger’s nerves tautened.

  Then he found a screw of paper, unfolded it, and found it was an envelope addressed to Gladys Domwell at her sister’s home. It was in a strange, spidery hand of the signature to the letter to Mallow from Mildmay’s; the handwriting of Netherby, the London manager.

  Roger stood studying it, mind racing along new lines. He put it down, and picked up a bottle filled with white tablets, and a label, reading: Nicotinic Acid. He studied this, frowning, and then heard a thud, above his head, the first sound from outside.

  George spun round from the kettle and kicked the methylated bottle over. The strong smell of the spirit rose, chokingly; the spirit wasted itself in the dust of the floor, the fumes rose, fumes which might catch alight.

  Silence fell above them.

  George dived for the candle.

  “Keep that light away from there!” Roger cried. “Keep it away!”

  Above their heads, the police, firemen, and a demolition squad from a nearby contractor were already working. They seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace; men were actually lifting the bricks and broken concrete and twisted girders with their hands, or with small spades. Among them, Wortleberry was watching with dread in his usually placid eyes.

  A woman, not far off, cried: “Why don’t they get a move on if people are buried under there?”

  Wortleberry knew the answer. Two policemen with their pick axes, and one newspaper man, were somewhere under the mountain of rubble. It had been pitched into the basement as if it had entered through a funnel; very little had fallen outside. In the middle, the level of the rubble was above the top of the basement. The rescue squad had to move every piece of brick and concrete with desperate care, lest they should cause worse injury to any of the buried men.

  Wortleberry did not know what had happened to West or the boy.

  He did know that the Yard men now at work seemed as much on edge for West’s wife, who didn’t yet know of this, as for West himself. But haste could bring greater disaster; they were doing all they could. A doctor and nurses stood by, an ambulance was near the spot; it wasn’t a difficult job, the only thing needed was time.

  A few miles away, sitting side by side in a cinema, t
he West boys were hugging their sides with delight at the antics of a great American clown, while Janet was wondering whether she could sit the nonsense through, and also if Roger would be home earlier tonight; and whether he’d found that missing woman.

  It was pitch dark.

  The boy sat with his back to the wall, next to Roger; and Roger was close to Daphne Mallow. He could hear the boy’s breathing, but not the woman’s. There wasn’t a thing he could do. Though they were used to the stench of the methylated spirits, he didn’t feel it safe to have a naked light. They’d have no hope at all if there were fire.

  He kept thinking.

  He wanted to see Netherby; was desperately anxious to see him now. Netherby seemed the only possible hope of getting a line on Ginn; might even have been party to framing Mallow. Ginn had killed twice, perhaps thrice; Ginn was at large, and Mallow might be hanged for crimes he had not committed. So, question Netherby now; every lost minute gave Ginn more time to escape.

  It was a hell of a case, and would get worse if he couldn’t send word to the men outside.

  He could hear nothing, but knew that they must be working; the silence warned him how slowly they moved, how fearful they were.

  The boy was dozing; one good thing.

  He himself was beginning to feel stupid; the heavy smell, the thinning air; the weariness, were all conspiring. He felt himself nodding, and prodded himself upright. There was so much to do; so much the police might attempt; and every minute Ginn was probably getting farther and farther away.

  It was dark outside now, except for the light of the car lamps and two mobile searchlights shining on the spot. Much of the rubble was out of the basement. Wortleberry watched three men moving small pieces away, with great care.

  The light fell upon a buried man’s leg; and on his hand. There was no way of telling whose it was.

  One man, dead, lay on a stretcher near by.

  A car came up. Chatworth’s voice sounded, a woman answered in a monosyllable, there were footsteps, and then a boy said: “That—that isn’t Daddy, Mum, it isn’t, is it?”

  Another child cried: “It mustn’t be, oh, no!”

  Janet West spoke in a very quiet voice.

  “Come and stand by me, boys. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Come on, lads.” That was Chatworth.

  “Oh, isn’t there,” said Martin West, and instead of going back to his mother, he went forward. “I’m going to look and see!”

  “Scoop!” Janet West cried. “Come back!”

  But he was scrambling down into the pit, and towards the crushed and broken body. It wasn’t his father; but it showed him what might have happened to his father, and he began to lift pieces of concrete away with the strength of a grown man.

  While Janet, near the edge, had to struggle to prevent Richard from joining him.

  That was at midnight.

  At half past one they had the doorway clear.

  Chapter Twenty

  One Man To Tackle

  Roger stood up, and gradually stretched his stiff legs, moved his cramped arms. He did it mechanically; something which had woken him from stupor, drove him to move. He didn’t go far. He was conscious of the thick, heavy atmosphere, but it seemed to be inside him as well as in the air he breathed, something he would never be able to get out of his system. He didn’t think much about it. Although he kept sipping water, his mouth was parched, his eyes ached, and his head was almost unbearable. He didn’t think he could last out much longer. Nor could the boy who was still leaning against the wall.

  Was George dead?

  “Wake him!” Roger shouted. “Wake him.” The echo answered. “George!” He bent down, and banged his head against the wall; then he stumbled over the boy. “George!” he cried. “Wake up!”

  A whisper came.

  “Wassmarrer?”

  “George, wake up!”

  “Wassat?”

  It was all right; he was near panic, but the boy was all right; and better asleep than awake. He groped, found George’s hand.

  “All right, George,” he said, “I was dreaming. Sorry.”

  The boy didn’t answer, so no harm was done.

  Face it: if they were going to die, the best way was to die in their sleep.

  It was pitch dark.

  Then, a miracle happened; or it was like a miracle. Light spread slowly into darkness.

  The brightness came from a single spot, and shone through, just one tiny sliver of pale light, striking the moving dust and the concrete floor. It had shape, too; the shape of an elongated keyhole.

  Breathlessly, Roger watched it; he heard sounds outside, and knew that he and the boy would survive; but now that it was at hand, rescue for them hardly mattered.

  Was Daphne Mallow alive?

  There were three boys, all clinging to Roger; three, where there should have been just his two. There was Janet, no longer in tears, standing a few yards away. Massive, ungainly Wortleberry was by her side, looking as if he’d been through an ordeal of despair. Chatworth, too, barking away at someone else from the Yard. Ambulance men were carrying Daphne Mallow on the stretcher towards the cream coloured ambulance.

  The doctor followed them, carrying his stethoscope; as if a man couldn’t tell life from death without one of those things dangling on his chest!

  “Is she alive?” Chatworth barked.

  “Just,” the doctor answered. “With luck, she’ll be all right. Gangway, there.”

  Chatworth was blocking the gangway.

  The boys were clinging …

  There was the night, of sleep, and a bright new day. Roger woke to the ordinary sounds, and found it hard to realise what they were; the vacuum cleaner, of course; nothing must disturb the day’s routine. Janet, God bless her! Janet – and now an empty bedroom, neat and tidy, with the newspapers by his side, and tea the moment he cared to shout for it; that would be as soon as the humming ceased. He sat up in bed, and remembered everything. He looked out of the window, then picked up a newspaper and scanned the stop press; there was no news of Daphne Mallow. He waited, until the vacuum cleaner stopped, and then called out. Janet must have been waiting for it, she was at the door in a flash.

  She looked – wonderful. Flushed, wearing an old pink dress and a small apron, a plastic bathing cap over her dark hair, her eyes glistening. She came rushing.

  A minute later, she drew back.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Mrs. Mallow’s alive, she’ll be all right. You saved her.”

  That took some absorbing, and brought a relief that was tainted only by the other fear; of trying and hanging an innocent man for murder.

  “Ginn?” he asked.

  “Chatworth rang up, half an hour ago, and said there wasn’t any news.”

  “Netherby?”

  “He says that Ginn wrote and told him that Mallow was swindling Mildmay’s. Ginn wanted ten pounds for the information and proof, and Netherby says he paid it. I don’t know the details.” Janet stood back from the bed, and slowly shook her head. Something like laughter lurked in her clear grey green eyes. “I was going to ask you to stay in bed for the rest of the morning, but I can see it’s no use. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  She went out.

  Roger called: “Any news of young George Smith?”

  “Yes,” Janet shouted back, “he played truant all yesterday, he’s always playing truant. Instead of encouraging young rascals, why don’t you tackle crime where it starts?”

  She was only half laughing.

  At the Yard, Michael Mallow looked much calmer than he had the previous day. He’d slept since he’d heard that Daphne was safe, his eyes were less bloodshot, and he’d had a good shave. He was just a handsome, worried young man with rather a weak mouth and chin; the type many women would fall for.

  “I keep telling you, I haven’t killed anybody. I did fiddle a bit on commission, but not much, I meant to pay it back.”

  “Did you see Norris at Reedon’s cottage?
”

  “No.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Just the man with the bag. I’ve told you.”

  “Did you ever have any reason to think that Ben Norris was an associate of thieves?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen this man Ginn?”

  “Never!”

  “Ever seen this man?” Roger showed him a photograph of Chips Silver, and Mallow stared tensely, and then cried: “Yes, that’s the man with the green bag, the man who was killed, but I didn’t kill him!”

  He stuck to that; and repeated his story of being knocked out, going to the cottage, seeing Chips Silver, being knocked out again – and waking to find Chips dead and the bag gone. He’d gone to the cottage and written to Reedon on Norris’s order.

  “Ever heard of a man named Rawson?”

  “Norris told me he was Reedon.”

  “Hadn’t you known Reedon as Rawson years ago?”

  “No!”

  “How long have you known Reedon?”

  “Several years, ever since I went to Hoole.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police, when you found the body? Why did you run away? What made you take it for granted that the police would accuse you?”

  Mallow said: “I’ve told you.”

  “Didn’t you realise that by running away you’d only attract attention to yourself?”

  “I thought you’d find the murderer, that it would be all over before—before you got after me.”

  “If you’re lying,” Roger said, “you’re just making a noose for your own neck. You can take that literally,” he added roughly. “How well do you know your London office manager, Netherby?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Like him?”

  “I hate the sight of him!”

  “Why?”

  “He’s always needling me.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh. hell,” Mallow muttered, “I fiddled a bit on commission, fixed a few orders. I thought I’d be all right, if I held on—he’s leaving.”

  “What?”

  “He’s on his way out—been fired,” Mallow said.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Of course I’m sure. One of the girls in the London office told me. He’s been with the firm several years, but he’s been losing business lately.”