Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  He decided on bold action. One fine dry night he stopped the car at the roundabout. Choosing a moment when no one was passing – it was nearly midnight – he carefully opened the nearside door and emptied a small pot of white paint over the broken kerb and dropped the pot in the gutter. The whole thing took only a few moments. Next day, on his way to work, he drove past the roundabout to see if his plan had been successful. The kerb was a bit sticky, but a good deal of the paint had dried. Twenty-four hours later the thick of the paint had been wiped off – presumably by a street-cleaner – but the effect had been achieved. The kerb stood out from the others, and would probably remain white for months.

  There was really no reason, Cross decided, why this method of marking the way should not be used on a greater scale. A careful inspection of the route between the roundabout and Welford Avenue showed two turnings each way where he might easily become confused. Again, therefore, he set out – this time with a larger pot of paint – and in a short time had decorated four bits of kerb. The empty paint tin he threw into the river. He wondered whether by any chance the fact that five kerbstones had been splashed with white paint would arouse any local comment, and he studied the next issues of the district newspaper with some care. But nobody had taken any interest. Painting a kerb, after all, was not like painting a statue. No doubt there had been some rude remarks among the employees of the Highways Department of the Council, but the matter went no further. Cross could have hugged himself for his daring and resourcefulness. He made a few more night runs and decided that except in an absolute pea-souper – which would be useless for his purpose, anyway – he could find his way from the flat to the roundabout, and from the roundabout to and from Welford Avenue, with complete assurance.

  He now felt ready for a dress rehearsal. He had never tapped the barometer so often; never studied the weather reports so closely. Towards the end of November a cold spell set in, and visibility dropped sharply. The outlook was ‘Continuing cold, some fog’. Cross set off on what he mentally termed ‘a spin over the course’. After an early dinner at Alum Court he left at 7.15 p.m., wearing a heavy grey overcoat and a soft grey hat. In a fog they would provide some protective colouring. In one pocket he had the dummy name-plate; in the other a ten-inch steel spanner. The fog was not as thick as he would want it to be on the night, but it was bad enough to make a fog-lamp useful and ordinary white lights troublesome. He reached the roundabout at 7.20, and with the help of the whitened kerb picked up the turn for Welford Avenue with ease. He drove slowly through to the Avenue without a hitch, arriving there at 7.34. The fog was a little sparser here, and he decided not to go through with the name-plate and spanner drill. Instead, he waited a minute or two and then drove back to the roundabout, arriving at 7.48. He parked just beyond the third bus-stop for fifteen minutes. That seemed a reasonable allowance for picking up his witnesses. He noticed with satisfaction that all the buses were very crowded, that long queues were standing at the stops, and that there were plenty of people walking by on the pavement. At 8.03 he again set off for Welford Avenue, arriving at 8.16 – a bit late, he decided, for safety. It would never do to run into Geoffrey as he left the house after doing the murder! He would have to put the whole schedule forward a bit.

  As he sat in the car in Welford Avenue he mentally rehearsed the part he would have to play on the night. He would say something to his passengers about asking the way; he would get out, walk to his uncle’s gate, pick up the spanner and hold it in his right-hand pocket, tap at the window, wait, go in, shut the door, hit his uncle over the head, put the spanner back in his pocket, ring up a neighbour (he had still to choose one – he must remember that), walk quickly to the name-plate, remove the dummy, return to the car, curse about the bombed house and drive away. Round a couple of corners, and safety! Time, 8.21. Say five minutes for the whole operation. After that he could take his passengers to their destination at his leisure.

  Back home, Cross revised the schedule. He would leave Alum Court at 7 o’clock instead of 7.15, and then he should arrive at Welford Avenue at just about 8.

  There remained the problem of the neighbour to be rung up. It was not as simple as it seemed – in fact, Cross could see several dangers. Once the killing was done, it was imperative that he should get out of the house quickly. Indeed, it might be better to phone from a call-box. Cross considered that possibility. He could make some excuse to his passengers, but it would be straining their patience – he would already have been away five minutes. And it would come out that he had telephoned – he would be asked whom he had rung up. He could invent something – an engaged number – but why should he want to ring anybody up at that hour, when he was on his way to see his uncle? Of course – he’d lost his way, and was late, and was ringing up his uncle. There would be no reply. Perfect! He would be puzzled, of course, but ... No, that wouldn’t do, though. Ostensibly he would be in Hamley Avenue, using a call-box there. It might turn out that such a call-box had not been used during the period from 8 to 8.30. A quiet district, a foggy night – that was quite possible. And then where would he be? How tricky it all was!

  Then the call must be from the house, after all. He must ring up someone who could be relied on to be home at that time. The police would be ideal in many ways, but they might move too fast. They were very much on the alert with their 999’s and radio cars, particularly as there was what the newspapers called a ‘crime wave’ just at the moment. Deserters, the papers said. Cross wanted to be well clear of the neighbourhood before the police got busy.

  Whom could he ring? He called at a post-office and consulted the local street directory. He looked all through the list of residents in Welford Avenue without inspiration. Most of them had telephones, but there was no certainty that they would be at home on the night. Even if he equipped himself with alternative numbers, he couldn’t afford to be phoning one house after another with a corpse lying in the hall and his car outside with passengers in it. He glanced down the list of residents in the next road – Pargeter Avenue, backing on to Welford Avenue – and suddenly he knew he had found the very thing. A doctor! Even if the doctor himself weren’t at home, there would be a nurse or someone to take a message. Whoever answered the phone would be a responsible person, and would certainly see that help was on its way within a few minutes. Cross carefully memorized the doctor’s telephone number. And, just in case the number should be engaged, he found another doctor a street or two away who would serve as a second string.

  The next day was Thursday, and the fog was thickening. The blueprint was finished, and the time for action had come.

  Strangely enough, Cross slept better that night than he had done for a long time. There was no more need for him to scheme and plot; to lie awake, as he had so often done, until three o’clock in the morning, devising alternative ways of dealing with various situations. Now all was plain and settled. Anything that might go wrong now was, he believed, unforseeable. Obviously, there were dangers, but he had no doubt whatever that in his particular circumstances they were worth taking. This frame of mind, aided by half a tumbler of whisky, brought a quiet night.

  He woke at eight, a little liverish but with rested nerves. Between gulps of tea and puffs of cigarette smoke, he gazed with an appreciative eye at the raw November scene. There was a rime of frost on the window-sill, and fog hid the building across the way. It was thicker than it had been the day before; if it held like this until the evening, it would be perfect. He switched on the radio for the weather forecast. “Fog service in operation on all lines ... motorists warned of difficult road conditions ... rather cold, continuing foggy.” Splendid!

  He was completely engrossed by his one idea. It was in no way a repellent idea. On the contrary, he was really looking forward to the evening. For so long his only interest had been in building up this plan, item by item, to its present state of perfection. He was excited by the thought that he was now going to put it to the test. He was eager for the inevitable duel of wits with the
police; all his faculties were sharp for the contest. What was important now was the technical execution of the plot. The mere death of his uncle was just an incident in the plot. An important one, of course. Cross wondered how long it would be before he could get his hands on the cash. Lawyers were so slow.

  At the Works the hours dragged. Uncle Charles, fussing in and out with his talk about Cambridge blue and eggshell finish, was more than usually trying. “I’ll give him an eggshell finish,” thought Cross. How on earth did the old chap manage to keep such a tan on his bald head in November? Or was it a yellow skin and blood pressure? Surely he couldn’t really feel as fit as he looked?

  There was one bad moment. Hollison, popping in with his hat and coat on just before six o’clock, said: “It’s a foul night, Arthur, and it seems to be getting thicker. Perhaps you’d sooner not come over tonight?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Cross, cool and cautious. He took a look out of the window at the dim light of the street lamp. “It’s not as bad as all that. I bet Mrs. Armstrong won’t stay and cook your supper just because it’s foggy.”

  Hollison laughed. “Not she. You won’t catch her missing her weekly jaunt.”

  Cross laughed, too. “If she can face it, I can. I suppose Geoffrey’s lecturing as usual?”

  “Yes – but he’ll probably be a little late with all this fog.”

  “That’s an extra reason why I should come. We’ll have a game – I’ll give you a rook and a bishop tonight. I’m feeling in form.”

  “You’re getting above yourself,” said Hollison, with a grin. “Well, I’m off. See you later.”

  “Be careful how you drive,” said Cross. “We don’t want any accidents.”

  On the way home he stopped to get the Vauxhall’s petrol tank filled up and the oil level checked. Thank goodness he never had any difficulty about petrol – these ‘E’ coupons for business use were a wonderful idea. The car, as usual, was running splendidly. He couldn’t afford any breakdowns tonight. He left the car outside Alum Court while he had a quick snack. He would have liked to ring Geoffrey, just to assure himself that his cousin was actually at the College and going through his usual routine. There was not the least reason to doubt it, but – well, illness or a cancellation! Cross shrugged and put the thought behind him. It would be just too bad.

  The time was ten minutes to seven. He popped up to his flat to get the dummy name-plate, had one short drink to steady himself, and went down to the car. The fog was a beauty! It was thick enough to make route-finding difficult, to make it seem reasonable that a driver should get lost. At the same time it was still possible for traffic to move. The white frost crackled a little under his feet; there was no breath of wind. He drew his coat up round his ears and pulled his woollen muffler a shade tighter across his narrow chest. Not much good coming into a fortune if he got pneumonia doing it. He climbed into the driving seat, picked up the spanner from the well at the back, and slid it into his right-hand pocket with the torch which he had already put there. All set! His luminous watch showed exactly seven. He started the engine and turned carefully into the main road.

  There was rather more traffic than he had expected, but it came bunched up, with big gaps in between the convoys. Most of the vehicles were buses, crawling one behind the other with their fog-lamps on the kerb. They seemed ghostly and remote. In a fog, people were always intent on their own problems. There was no idle curiosity, no one to stand and stare and wonder. Everyone wanted to get home as quickly as possible. The police probably had their hands full with the traffic and the petty crime that always came with fog. In short, it was a grand night for a murder.

  Cross had no trouble with the route. He had been over the ground so often that he almost knew when to turn the wheel and how much. The painted kerbs, yellow under the fog-lamp, were as reassuring and helpful as buoys at sea. It was 7.17 when he cautiously turned into Welford Avenue and drew up a few yards from his uncle’s house. The road was silent and deserted; through the murk it was just possible to see a faint light at Hollison’s window.

  Cross slipped out, leaving the car door slightly open and the engine ticking over. Without opening his uncle’s gate, he slid the heavy spanner on to the concrete close to the gate-post. Then, without a pause, he walked quickly to the corner by the lamp. There was still a faint crackle of hoar frost under his rubber-soled shoes. He glanced round the corner. There was nothing to be seen except grey vapour. Nothing to be heard. It took him hardly a moment to pull the dummy from his pocket, unroll it, and slip it over the plate. Once again he stepped back to the kerb and examined it. HAMLEY AVENUE. It was convincing. The marks of the dummy bolt-heads painted on the canvas gave it the final touch of authenticity.

  The car was a dim shape across the road. Listening intently, Cross thought he could hear footsteps somewhere in the Avenue, but as he drove along he passed no one, and decided that he had been mistaken. He was keyed up, but his nerve was all right. Tomorrow a fortune!

  Fifteen minutes later he was back at the roundabout. A glance at his watch told him he was keeping to schedule pretty well. He drew up at the kerb, twenty yards or so beyond the bus-stop, and opened the near-side window. People were plodding by. He could allow himself ten or twelve minutes to get his witnesses, and if he failed to find suitable candidates in that time, he must call the show off for the night. This was one of the worrying bits – particularly unpleasant because success did not depend solely on his own efforts. But surely someone would be glad of a lift on a filthy night like this. The thing was to make it seem natural, not to force anything. He peered through the fog, wondering whether he should speak to someone or wait a while.

  He had not been at the kerb more than three minutes when a figure took shape out of the fog and bore down on him. It was a woman, a young woman, with a scarf over her hair. She was a little diffident. “Excuse me,” she said, “but do you happen to know if there’s a taxi rank anywhere around here?”

  “There’s one by the station, about half a mile ahead,” said Cross, studying her. “But I don’t suppose there’s a cab on it on a night like this. Isn’t it shocking? I’m lost myself. I’m trying to get to Welford Avenue. That’s not your part of the world, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no,” said the girl hastily, retreating. “I’m going in the opposite direction – to Kew. The buses are all full – it’s most awkward. I suppose I’ll have to walk.” She disappeared into the gloom.

  “Silly bitch!” muttered Cross, lighting a cigarette with fingers that shook just a little. Time was passing, the suspense was very trying. Perhaps he ought to have pressed her to accept a lift – but would a man trying to find his way to Welford Avenue give a lift to an uncomely young female who was going to Kew? It would really sound most unlikely. Whatever he did, he mustn’t allow himself to be stampeded into taking foolish risks.

  Seven minutes to go! It looked as though he would have to take the initiative after all. Several people glanced in his direction as they passed, but no one else stopped. About ten yards back he could just make out the figure of a man selling newspapers near the bus-stop. There were also two men standing talking in a shop doorway almost opposite him. One of them looked towards the car. Cross was just about to call out and ask them if they knew the turning for Welford Avenue when they came over. They were both young men, and they looked as though they might have been recently demobbed. Both wore dark overcoats and coloured scarves, and both had nondescript soft hats. In the poor light it was not easy to see anything of their faces.

  “Sorry to trouble you, mister,” said the taller one. His voice was a little hoarse, as though the fog had got into his larynx. “Any chance of a lift?”

  “Depends where you’re going,” said Cross. “I’m trying to get to Welford Avenue.”

  “That’s a stroke of luck,” said the short man. “We’re going up that way – Angel Road. You could drop us off.”

  “Okay – jump in the back,” said Cross, opening the door for them. “I don’t guar
antee to get you there, mind. Do you know the way?” He waited anxiously for the reply. If they did, he was probably sunk.

  “Not exactly,” said the hoarse man. “On a clear night, yes; but not in this muck. There’s a turn on the left here somewhere, isn’t there, Fred?”

  “Somewhere,” said Fred unhelpfully.

  “I expect we’ll find it,” said Cross, more cheerfully, swinging the car round by the familiar painted kerb.

  “Anyway,” said Fred, “it’s a bloomin’ sight better gettin’ lost in a car than walkin’. I know – I’ve got a bad foot. Copped it in Sicily.”

  “Just out?” asked Cross sympathetically.

  “Yus, couple of months back. Wish I was still in Sicily, with this damned weather. Fair snorter, ain’t it?”

  “It’s a bad night for going places,” said Cross. “Angel Road, you said; any particular number?” He must know where they were going.

  “Trade union meeting,” said the hoarse man. “And we’re late. But I reckon they’ll all be late – don’t you, Fred?”

  “Sure,” said Fred.

  Cross looked at his watch. He was well on time. “Good honest working chaps,” he thought to himself. “Just the thing. No nonsense about them – they’ll stick to their stories. Any jury would believe them.” He swung out to pass a stationary bus and crawled back to the kerb. “I believe we’re all right,” he said hopefully. “What do you think?”

  “Blowed if I know,” growled Fred. “It all looks alike to me.”

  “Do you live in these parts?” asked Cross. Time was running short – he must make sure that his witnesses would be traceable afterwards.

  “Kingston,” said the tall man. “Both of us.”

  “Anywhere near the river? I’ve got a boat down there.”