Murder: One, Two, Three

by John Creasey

  “Did Norris know Netherby?”

  “Well, sort of,” said Mallow. “They’d met; Netherby came down to Hoole, and I took him round to the customers. About a year ago, I suppose. It was just like the swine, I had a date with Tony Reedon, but had to cut it. We had a drink with Tony, that was all.”

  “Did Reedon know Ginn?”

  “I don’t know!” cried Mallow.

  Roger went out.

  He didn’t feel on top of himself, but didn’t waste any time.

  Wortleberry had gone back to Hoole, to take charge of the investigation into Ben Norris’s local activities, but the real crack in the case started in London.

  Roger checked every known movement of Mallow, Norris, and Chips Silver, and it led him to the Aldgate cafe. Silver and Norris had met there occasionally, the proprietor said; Silver had been going there for years.

  “Ginn?”

  “He used to,” said the cafe owner. “’Aven’t seen ’im for years.”

  “Ever see a man named Rawson—this chap?” Roger produced a photograph of Reedon.

  The man studied it closely.

  “Sure, but he was younger then. Used to come in with Chips Silver and Ginn, only a kid he was.”

  It was now beyond reasonable doubt that Reedon, as Rawson, had pulled off a big job, and “retired”; little doubt that Ginn had discovered that, probably through Norris, and planned the raid. They’d also planned to kill Reedon and possibly to frame Mallow – but why kill Reedon? They could have attacked him, or lured him away and raided the cottage. They’d wanted Reedon and Mallow both there together, if Mallow’s story were true.

  Was it?

  Where was Ginn?

  Had he got the green bag and whatever it contained?

  Or had Mallow? He was in desperate need of money, which was a strong enough motive. Debt turned kindly men into brutes, honest men into criminals. Debt—

  He was at his desk when the idea flashed into his mind. On the instant, he put in a call to the Superintendent of Police at Bridgnorth; a man he knew slightly.

  “How well do you know the directors of Mildmay’s?” he asked briskly.

  “Very well,” the Bridgnorth man said. “Why, the chairman is in the running for our next Chief Constable. Why?”

  “Find out why their London manager, Netherby, has been fired, will you?”

  “See what I can do,” promised the Bridgnorth man. “I’ll ring you back.”

  He was back on the line in an hour; laden with news.

  “What have you got, Handsome? Second sight? Netherby’s been systematically robbing the company for years. They took him on because of his accident, years ago, and he seemed first class. But a few weeks ago they discovered the racket. Being a decent crowd, they weren’t going to prosecute, but—”

  “We’ll save them the trouble,” Roger said, and his voice boomed. “Give me the details, will you?”

  He was putting the receiver down when Cortland came hurrying into the office, for once more excited than placid. “We’ve got something fresh on Mallow,” he said. “He’s got a bit of fluff in Netherby’s office—a girl typist. They saw each other on Sunday. How’s that?”

  “That’s fine,” said Roger, “that’s wonderful. I’ll see the girl first, and then face Mallow with her. Before we bring Netherby in, too, I want—” He gave an explosive laugh.

  “The man you want is Ginn, remember?” Cortland said. “While he’s free, he can raise hell.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Roger said, and grinned. “Remember those nicotinic acid tablets found beneath the rubble?”

  “Yes,” said Cortland.

  “Seen the lab report on them?”

  “Just nicotinic acid,” Cortland answered. “Pure and unadulterated. Presumably Ginn needed them.”

  “Oh, he needed them,” agreed Roger. “But he wasn’t suffering from pellagra, or any of the diseases he’d need them for. Notice the symptoms after taking them?”

  “Flushed face, uncomfortable sensation—something like a fever, I’d say.”

  “Could be,” said Roger. He put his hand to his pocket, and brought out a bottle. “Here they are, anyhow.”

  He went out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Finger At Ginn

  Mallow’s “bit of fluff” was a little girl, with a nicely rounded figure, fair, fluffy hair, and china blue eyes; and she was empty headed and scared. Roger remembered her pounding away at a typewriter when he had first been to see Netherby. She was in the waiting room at the Yard, quivering all the time, dwarfed by the policemen and by Roger.

  She was likely to crack without giving a lot of trouble.

  “Now, Miss Reynolds, it isn’t a crime to harbour a criminal unless you know he is one. Do you understand that?”

  “I—I—yes, yes, I do,” she whimpered.

  “How long have you known Michael Mallow?”

  “Oh, a long—a long time.”

  “How long have you been close friends?”

  Her eyes misted with tears.

  “Not very long, I—I know I shouldn’t have—have let him do what—” She couldn’t finish; and after the outburst of crying, she was trembling violently.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “It was—it must have been Sunday.”

  “What time?”

  “Well—well, morning. Mum had just gone to church. He rang me up, at home, said he was in trouble and had to see me. I—I met him on Hampstead Heath. I live near the Heath, so it was easy.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He—he wanted me—” She broke off again, and the tears flooded; Roger waited with an impatience he found hard to maintain. But she recovered, and went on drably: “He wanted me to keep something for him. A—a bag.”

  Patience rewarded!

  “A green canvas bag?” asked Roger flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what is in it?”

  “No,” she said, and began to sob again. “He tied it up, said I mustn’t undo the knot. I didn’t even try to.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In my wardrobe at home,” she told him. “I haven’t touched it since I put it there, honestly.”

  They found the bag, with a powdering of white over it – dust from the ceiling at the cottage at Hoole. Inside there were nearly ten thousand pounds in one pound notes, new ones which had never been circulated – nearly half the proceeds of a bank robbery now seven years old. Obviously Reedon had spread spending the notes over a long period, and made sure they couldn’t be traced back to him.

  There were also jewels, the better part of fifteen thousand pounds worth, proceeds of the same robbery. Mallow didn’t hold out after seeing Iris Reynolds and the bag, and when he broke down he told everything. His story was much the same as before, up to the time that he had gone into the cottage. He swore that the man with the green bag had attacked him, that he’d killed him in self defence; and then had looked into the bag.

  It contained money enough to get him out of all his troubles, to set him up for life.

  So he had run away, intent on hiding the fortune until the trouble had blown over, hoping he wouldn’t be traced to the cottage; but if he were, ready to say that he’d fled because he thought he would be accused of the murder of the man at the foot of the stairs.

  He knew that Norris had posted the money to Daphne; Norris would have followed that up with a visit, believing that Daphne would know where her husband was, and to find out from her. It hadn’t worked out that way.

  Mallow had pretended to be absolutely broke, so as to lend credence to his story that he didn’t know where the money or the jewels were. He had surrendered to the police, ostensibly for his wife’s sake, actually in order to be away from Ginn.

  He confessed that when the police released him, he had been terrified; he had phoned Norris to suggest dividing the haul, then been led into Ginn’s trap.

  “Norris told me what happened at the cottage,”
he said in a husky voice. “Ginn had killed Reedon, and Silver was inside looking for the stuff. Norris was keeping a look out. A couple of coastguards came along the cliff road, and Ginn and Norris had to hide. That was just after I’d gone in, when I—I was fighting with the man in the cottage. I got out as fast as I could, and didn’t see anyone. Norris and Ginn guessed I had the bag. They thought it would be easy to make me hand over, but—but why the hell should I?”

  He was almost indignant at the very thought.

  “Is there anything else?” Roger asked coldly.

  “No, but I didn’t mean to kill the man, I tell you it was in self defence.”

  He would probably get away with that, Roger thought; and that was a pity.

  “Do you still say you’ve never seen Ginn?”

  “If I knew anything more, I’d tell you,” Mallow said eagerly. “The only other thing Norris said was that it wouldn’t have happened if Ginn hadn’t seen Tony Reedon in Hoole, but until then I didn’t know Ginn had been to Hoole. I swear I’ve never seen him! But—but listen, you’ve got to find Ginn. I’ll never be safe while he’s free. Nor—nor will my wife.”

  “I don’t think you care much about your wife,” Roger said icily. “But we’ll get Ginn.”

  He said it as if he was absolutely sure.

  He went from the Yard to Butt Lane, to see Netherby. Netherby had pointed a finger at Ginn, but Roger wasn’t thinking much about Netherby or Ginn, on the way; he was thinking more about Daphne Mallow and her marriage to a selfish, callous brute. Mallow would undoubtedly get several years’ imprisonment, although they weren’t likely to be able to prove murder against him. At least when she recovered from her ordeal, his wife would be on her own for a few years, and perhaps be able to shape her own life.

  The hell of crime was always the same: the effect on the innocent.

  Now, he was going to see Netherby, who wasn’t exactly an innocent.

  Sergeant Appleby was also coming along, to take notes.

  Netherby sat very still at his desk, with his left hand resting on the edge, and his right out of sight. The fingers were stiff and crooked, the hand looked claw like. Outside, the sun was very bright and the office could not have been brighter; even though his back was to the window, it threw Netherby’s round, florid face into clear relief. His colour was so bright that it looked unnatural – as it had before. His hair was spread very thin over his scalp; here and there, streaks of the white skin showed through.

  He was as aloof as he had been at the first interview, spoke only to Roger, and ignored Sergeant Appleby altogether.

  “I have already told the police of my association with this person, Ginn,” he said. “He offered what he called evidence that Mallow had been altering sales figures and drawing larger commissions than he had yet earned. I am not interested in the apparent probability of that—when a man is desperate, he will do anything.” Netherby paused, to let that sink in; and when Roger didn’t argue, he went on in the same thin, cold voice: “It transpired that Ginn was an acquaintance of Mr. Norris, of Hoole. I have already told you so. I asked Mr. Norris what orders he had given, and the figure showed a very grave discrepancy with the order which Mallow had sent through this office. I immediately inquired from other customers; in each case there are grounds for suspicion.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you yourself are under notice, Mr. Netherby?”

  Netherby didn’t like that; and didn’t answer.

  Roger glanced at the crooked hand; then at the hand which was hidden. Except by shifting his chair, he couldn’t see if there was anything in that hidden hand. He didn’t shift his chair, but Appleby, a silent witness, saw where he was looking.

  “All right,” Roger said, “I’ll tell you. You’ve been robbing your company, and the directors gave you notice. They were too lenient, they should have charged you. If they had, we’d have had you before this—and would have checked your identity, Mr. Netherby, and your friends; especially Ginn.”

  He paused, but Netherby just looked vicious.

  “Ginn was a really bad man, but he kept out of our hands for a long time,” Roger went on. “He said he went to sea, and it was the general belief. But he didn’t. He created a new identity for himself. Just as a man he’d known years ago, a man named Rawson who became Reedon.

  “I don’t know whether Ginn knew that Reedon was Rawson before he went down to Hoole and met him; but once he realised who Reedon was, he knew there was a chance that Reedon still had most of the proceeds of an old robbery. So Ginn plotted to get it. He was desperate, because he knew he was going to lose his job, and wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t be prosecuted. He had to make a big haul, and get away in a hurry. He had never wholly given up his true identity as Ginn; it paid him to be seen about sometimes. In any case he had a very helpful and devoted girlfriend, named Gladys Domwell. But whenever he liked, he could disappear as Ginn and reappear in the other guise.

  “He had a hide out, in a bombed site near here.

  “In his other identity, Ginn had gone to Hoole, on business, and apparently by chance met and recognised Reedon. That was when he decided to get Reedon’s hoard. But Reedon alias Rawson had also recognised him as Ginn. Now, two people knew him under both his identities. Gladys Domwell was one, Reedon the other.

  “Obviously, he had to kill Reedon.

  “That was why, through Norris—an old accomplice who did a little fencing in Hoole—Ginn lured Mallow to Reedon’s cottage. The whole job was to be done there—Reedon killed, Mallow left to take the blame. It didn’t work out that way. You aren’t surprised at that, are you, Mr. Netherby? Instead of sitting pretty with the money, Ginn had to chase Mallow, who had taken it. In the effort to set himself up for life, he had let Norris discover his second identity—so Norris had to be killed. His murder was planned so as to frame Mallow for a second time.

  “That also failed,” Roger went on, quietly.

  “I haven’t much time for Mallow, Mr. Netherby, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  “I have never suggested—” Netherby began thinly.

  “Let me finish,” Roger interrupted. “There was some evidence which pointed to the second identity of Ginn—evidence which first gave me a reason for wondering what you could tell us. That is why I inquired from your Head Office, and was told the reason for your dismissal. There were two pieces of evidence—first, this.”

  Roger drew out the bottle of nicotinic acid tablets. Netherby’s gaze darted towards them, then away.

  “Know what these do?” asked Roger. “They make your face go very red. One tablet lasts an hour or so, and your colour gets very high, your complexion is very florid. But when the effect has worn off, you settle down to normal, and with skilful use of grease paint, or even dirt rubbed in, you look sallow instead of florid. You become almost a different man. You won’t fool anyone who knows you, but the two descriptions wouldn’t tally at all.”

  Netherby just stared.

  “The second piece of evidence I am talking about was also found at the basement in the ruins, a place which Ginn used as a hide out. It proves conclusively that Ginn had special gloves made. These gloves served two purposes. Whenever he wished, they saved him from leaving fingerprints at the scene of his crimes, and, worn in his second identity, they created a feature of the second identity which was so realistic that he did not think anyone would ever suspect the truth. He felt so secure as his second self that he was both careless and overbold. He believed that, as Ginn, he could disappear whenever he wished. So as Ginn, he tried to get Reedon’s fortune. In the process, he killed Reedon, Gladys, and Norris, thinking he was absolutely safe. He stopped being Ginn, and became the other identity. He hadn’t got the fortune, but he was still free.”

  Roger paused.

  Netherby sat with his body as still as his crooked left hand, his right still out of sight. But his right arm was moving. As it came up, and the hand showed just above the desk, Roger flung his cigarette case into the bright
red face. Netherby saw it coming, and dodged. His right hand appeared above the desk, clutching a gun. Before he could use the gun, Appleby grabbed his wrist and twisted.

  The gun dropped.

  “That’s fine,” said Roger very softly. “That’s the end of it all.”

  He was sweating; and felt that he had come to the end of a long, long trail.

  There were good things that he could see. Daphne Mallow, with a chance to live her own life. Young George Smith, discouraged from playing truant, and fathered by the police. Janet and the boys, all their fears gone. These things did much to blot out the pictures of dead men and the sound of a tiny squeak as a woman died.

  “That’s fine,” Roger repeated, and shrugged his shoulders, to straighten his coat again. “Harold Julius Netherby, it is my duty to arrest you on a charge of the wilful murder of Gladys Muriel Domwell at approximately ten fifteen p.m. on the night of Monday, June 8th. It is my further duty to inform you that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence. Further still, I must inform you that the charge may be altered so that it may be brought against you in not only the name of Harold Julius Netherby but in the name or alias of Roland known as Lefty Ginn.”

  Series Information

  Published or to be published by

  House of Stratus

  Dates given are those of first publication

  Alternative titles in brackets

  ‘The Baron’ (47 titles) (writing as Anthony Morton)

  ‘Department ‘Z’’ (28 titles)

  ‘Dr. Palfrey Novels’ (34 titles)

  ‘Gideon of Scotland Yard’ (22 titles)

  ‘Inspector West’ (43 titles)

  ‘Sexton Blake’ (5 titles)

  ‘The Toff’ (59 titles)

  along with:

  The Masters of Bow Street

  This epic novel embraces the story of the Bow Street Runners and the Marine Police, forerunners of the modern police force, who were founded by novelist Henry Fielding in 1748. They were the earliest detective force operating from the courts to enforce the decisions of magistrates. John Creasey’s account also gives a fascinating insight into family life of the time and the struggle between crime and justice, and ends with the establishment of the Metropolitan Police after the passing of Peel’s Act in 1829.