by Roger Bax
“Wicked!” said Cross. “Lead me to a drink – I’m frozen.”
He closed the door quietly behind him. Uncle Charles turned towards the lounge. His smooth head gleamed. At last, thought Cross, at last! He drew himself up on his toes and brought the heavy head of the spanner down on Hollison’s skull with all his strength. The blow was fearful, and Hollison slumped down with hardly a sound. A faint inarticulate gurgle – that was all. He lay still.
Cross was cool. This was the crisis – he must move fast. He bent over his uncle and made sure that he was dead. There was a huge rent in the skull, and a lot of blood. Cross stepped over the puddle, and hurried into the lounge. He wiped the spanner on a corner of carpet and slipped it back into his pocket.
He sat down by the telephone and dialled RIC 51423. He waited impatiently for the click and the ringing tone. Waiting, his eye fell on a pile of papers on the telephone table. One of them was in Geoffrey’s handwriting. Diagrams and things. It looked like a page of lecture notes.
A woman’s voice said, “Dr. Whitworth’s house.”
Another moment of risk! Cross had practised this – he felt certain that a disguised voice over the telephone could never afterwards be identified with assurance. He pitched his tone high, made it quaver. “There has been a bad accident at Charles Hollison’s house – 12A Welford Avenue, quite near to you. For heaven’s sake send round at once.”
The woman said: “I’m afraid the doctor’s out, but I’ll attend to it. 12A Welford Avenue. I know the house. Don’t worry.” She rang off.
Cross replaced the telephone receiver carefully. He was still wearing gloves. His eye swept the room. Keep cool, keep cool, he told himself. These are the moments of decision. This is life or death. There was no blood on the carpet, no footmark. His shoes were clean. So were his clothes. There was nothing to show that he had been there. Those notes of Geoffrey’s – should he? – shouldn’t he? It was unplanned, but why not? At worst they would help to confuse things. He carried the paper into the hall and slipped it under the body. Stepping once more over the pool of blood, he softly opened the front door, listened, left it ajar behind him, walked rapidly to the name-plate at the corner, dragged off the dummy, rolled it and thrust it into his pocket. He thought he heard a car starting up in the next road but it could have been his imagination. He was clammy with perspiration – his shirt was clinging to his back. A near thing – it had taken longer than he had expected. A good five minutes.
He reached the car and climbed in. The man was just saying something about ‘protocol’. Evidently they had not been talking about Cross or the fog, anyway.
“Any luck?” asked the girl.
“Hell, no!” said Cross. “Sorry I was such a while. Our luck’s out tonight. Of all the damned silly things to do, I picked on a bombed house. Did you hear me hammering away at a door that was off its hinges? I fell over something and came an awful cropper. That’s why I was so long.” He let in the clutch and the car moved off. “I hadn’t the heart to try anywhere else – the whole street’s as quiet as the grave.”
“It’s all our fault,” said the girl sympathetically. “I am sorry. I do hope you’re not much hurt.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. No bones broken.” For a second, as they passed the end of the road, he had another bad moment. The name-plate at this end said Welford Avenue. But the fog was too thick for his passengers to notice, and the spasm passed.
“We’d better ask the first person we see,” he said. “Or maybe I can find my way back to the roundabout. Once I get on the right road it won’t take long. What’s the time – will you be very late?”
“It’s ten past eight,” said the man, flicking on his lighter to examine his watch.
“John won’t mind,” said the girl, “not on a night like this. I shouldn’t think anybody will be very early.”
“I think the fog’s lifting a trifle,” said Cross. It was not true, but it might seem to explain his better progress, and it passed without comment.
Blessed silence! Relief from talk! He’d done it – he’d done it. No mistakes. No one had seen. He’d played his part – his witnesses even liked him. It was a cinch. Murder was easy!
They negotiated the roundabout and Cross picked out the road that led to the Park. He was pretty sure this was the way to Hailey Crescent. He could ask now – he was out of the danger zone. He passed a couple of men. He slowed, and called out.
“Is this the way to Hailey Crescent?”
“Straight on!” shouted one of the men. “Third on the left, if you can find it.”
“Oh, good,” said the girl thankfully. She began to make up her face. Cross watched the kerb. That would be the second – the next turning must be theirs. He took the corner slowly, looking for the name-plate. How sick and tired he was of name-plates! Yes, it was Hailey Crescent. Phew, he could do with a drink!
“Isn’t that a car light ahead?” said the man. “Stationary. That’s probably it. Yes, look, it’s a white gate.” Cross pulled up and they bundled out.
“We really can’t thank you enough,” said the girl. “We’d never have found it without you, would we, Charles? You’ve been a real good Samaritan.”
“You certainly have,” said the man. “We’re most grateful. You see, we’re flying to South America tomorrow, weather permitting, to take up a new job. It would have been most awkward to miss this date. Well, good night. Hope you manage to find your own way without too much trouble.”
“Good night,” said the girl. They turned quickly into the gateway.
Cross, caught up in panic, began to call after them. “I say ...” he cried desperately, not knowing what he would say. But they didn’t hear.
Cross slumped back into the driving-seat, exhausted. Flying to South America! A fine pair of witnesses he’d chosen!
CHAPTER VI
Cross’s moment of near-panic was soon over. It was extremely awkward, of course, that his witnesses might not be around to answer questions, but there could hardly be any real danger. Sir John Lutimer would be able to give all particulars about his guests, including their destination in South America – even if the police did not decide to take a statement from them tonight. There might be delay, but the evidence was secure enough on a long-term view. Indeed, it might even be better that the police should have to make an effort to get it – the harder they had to work for it themselves, the more value they might attach to it.
Suppose the plane crashed! The horrid thought had no sooner passed through Cross’s mind than common sense reasserted itself. He could hardly require that his affairs should be exempted from the normal hazards of life, just because he was a murderer. As far as he could see, that sudden flash of fear in the car had been quite unnecessary.
He came back to the immediate tasks. There was a lot to be done. The most pressing thing was to destroy the damning evidence of the dummy name-plate – the only thing in the world which might give a clue to the real events of the evening. It must be destroyed at once, before inquiries and searches began – and it was not an easy thing to destroy. It certainly couldn’t be thrown away, like an empty tin of paint, nor could it be safely hidden. Obviously, it must be burned, and for that purpose he must return to the flat. If the time had to be accounted for afterwards, he could say he had been shaken by his fall at the bombed house, and had felt in need of a clean-up and a drink. He set course for home.
Inside the flat, he drew the curtains and poured himself a stiff whisky. Then he cut the canvas dummy into small strips and soon had a nice blaze crackling in the grate. The paint-soaked canvas burned fiercely, leaving a stiff ash. It made an abominable smell.
He took the scissors into the kitchen, washed them carefully with hot water and soap, and replaced them in their drawer. Then, with a small dustpan and brush, he carefully collected every scrap of ash from the grate and wrapped it in a piece of stiff brown paper. Then he put the brown paper parcel into his coat pocket. He would deal with that in a few minutes.
He had already wiped the spanner on the carpet at Welford Avenue, but perhaps it had better be washed. He could see no mark on it, but it was impossible to be too careful. When it was dry, he put it back in his coat pocket alongside the paper parcel.
As he threw the grey coat over a chair back, he suffered another of those little shocks which for a short period were so unnerving. On the front of the coat, near the bottom, there was a dark streak. He touched it with his finger – it was drying blood. It hadn’t been there when Cross examined the coat in the lounge at Welford Avenue; it must have been picked up while he was bending over the corpse to secrete Geoffrey’s notes.
Hell! For a second, his mind seemed utterly confused. He sat down, trying to concentrate.
It was clear that he couldn’t just put the coat away for the time being and say nothing about it. He must be prepared for an early search of the flat. In any case, it was just possible his witnesses might remember he had been wearing a grey coat; that the police might ask why he had changed it, and where the other one was. They would be sure to interest themselves in what a man was wearing when there was so much blood about.
He would have to pretend the blood was his – to be quite frank about it. Fortunately, he had already told his witnesses that he had hurt himself at the bombed house. Now he must really hurt himself. He could say he had put his hand on some broken glass ... This wasn’t going to be very pleasant.
He looked round the flat. The cut mustn’t be too sharp or clean. Those scissors would probably do. He snatched them quickly from the drawer, chose a spot in the palm of his left hand, set his teeth, and jabbed. He had to do it twice, because the first jab wasn’t hard enough, and it hurt like hell. Even then there wasn’t much blood, but there was enough to account for a spot or two. He tied his handkerchief round the wound, feeling a little sick. Injuring oneself deliberately and brutally was much more unpleasant than having it happen by accident ... He had another drink, and once more washed the scissors.
Now he must get the stains out of the coat. The police were devils these days with their scientific tests. They would certainly test a stain for its blood-group, and his own blood-group might be different from his uncle’s. And hadn’t he read somewhere about its being possible nowadays to identify exactly any particular specimen? He couldn’t take any chances – all this was far out of his depth. He carried the coat to the wash-basin and soaked out the stain in cold water. It didn’t really amount to much – it hardly coloured the water at all. After a few minutes, he felt satisfied that the coat was free of all trace. After he had squeezed out the water, and just to make quite sure, he splashed petrol from a bottle of lighter fuel over the place where the stain had been. Whatever was there now should defy analysis. His behaviour would no doubt seem a little odd, but there would be no positive evidence.
He hung the coat over the back of a chair to dry, after transferring the contents of the pockets to his black coat. He gave his shoes, his socks and his suit a meticulous examination, but found no more stains. He carefully cleaned out the bowl in which he had washed out the blood. He glanced round the flat – everything seemed in order. He opened the window to air the room.
He felt better now, though his hand still throbbed painfully. At least he could account for everything. He hurried down to the car and put the spanner back in the tool-box.
Now he must phone Welford Avenue. It would be only reasonable to do so, since it was nearly nine o’clock and he was practically an hour late. His uncle would have expected a call. Also, it would be a little easier to behave naturally at the house if he had first been told the news by telephone.
He stopped at a box just before the roundabout. It was an odd feeling, ringing that house where his uncle lay dead on the floor. It was Geoffrey who answered the call, with a low, curt, “Yes, who is it?”
Cross hastened to say his piece first. “Hello, Geoffrey,” he said quickly, “this is Arthur. Isn’t it a hell of a night? Listen, I’m sorry I’m so late, I’ve had an awful time in the fog, will you tell Uncle ... What’s that? ... What do you say?”
He held the receiver a little away from his ear. The words that Geoffrey was saying were just a part of the working-out of the plan – they carried no human message. “... Bad news,” the telephone-distorted voice was saying, “... very bad. Father’s dead ...” The receiver crackled. “Better get round quickly.”
Cross took a deep breath. “Oh, Geoffrey! Oh, my God!” He hoped it was competently done. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.” He rang off.
The fog was really lifting a little now. Cross stopped once more on his way to Welford Avenue. Making sure that he was alone, he emptied the contents of the brown paper over a low wall into someone’s front garden. He rolled the piece of paper up into a ball and threw it out into the street as he drove along. He had disposed of the last of the evidence.
The Avenue looked very different from when he had last seen it. There was a whole row of vehicles drawn up outside the house – Geoffrey’s little Morris, and a couple of police cars, and an ambulance. One or two curious people, probably neighbours, were talking in low tones on the side of the road opposite the house. There was a police officer outside.
As Cross approached the gate, a girl came out of the house. Cross had no idea who she was. He just caught a glimpse of a pale, attractive face and chestnut hair under a kerchief, and she was off into the fog.
“Good evening, officer. I’m Arthur Cross.”
“That’s all right, sir – they’re expecting you.”
Cross walked up the path and rang. Another policeman opened the door. “Can I come in? – I’m Arthur Cross.”
“Yes, sir – be careful, sir. Terrible business.” He indicated a hunched-up pile on the floor in the passage, covered with a tablecloth. There was still a lot of blood around.
Cross was staring down at the body when Geoffrey came out of the lounge. He was grey and drawn. “Come in, Arthur – mind where you step. This is Superintendent Jackson of the local police. A Yard man is on his way.”
“I don’t understand,” began Cross, looking bewildered. (How did people behave when they were told to step over a close relation lying in a pool of blood?) “You said he was dead, but—”
“Murder, Mr. Cross,” said Jackson. “Better sit down. You don’t look so well yourself.” Jackson was a large florid man with a friendly expression.
“Have a drink,” said Geoffrey, pouring whisky. “One for you, Superintendent? No?” He passed a glass to Cross and drained his own.
“I still don’t understand,” said Cross. “For heaven’s sake, what are we all sitting around for? Why can’t that – that ghastly mess be cleared up? Why isn’t anybody doing anything?”
“Take it gently, Mr. Cross,” said the Superintendent, soothingly. “Everything’s being taken care of. The coroner’s officer and the police surgeon have been and gone. Death was practically instantaneous. We’ve taken photographs and done all the routine jobs. Inspector James, from the Yard, will be here any moment to take over. Until he’s had a look round, we can’t move anything.”
“What happened?” asked Cross.
“Some swine hit him on the head,” said Geoffrey, very slowly and quietly. “Smashed his skull in.” His fingers were working, his face was twisted with pain. “If I ever get my fingers on him—”
“Now, sir, easy does it ...” said Jackson. “You’ll only work yourself up again. We’ll find the chap who did it, never fear.”
“Who was the girl I met as I came in?” asked Cross, lighting a cigarette.
“Dr. Whitworth’s daughter,” said Geoffrey wearily. “Apparently someone rang up from here – it looks as though it
must have been the murderer – and as the doctor was out she came round herself. She’s a medical student. She ... she made sure he was dead. She put the tablecloth over him, called the police, took charge. She was here, alone, when I arrived. She was a brick – she told me what had happened before she’d let me in at the door. She even insisted on making me a cup of tea.” Geoffrey gave a mirthless laugh. He looked ‘all in’.
“What time did you get here?” asked Cross.
“Just before half past eight. The police followed me in. What happened to you?”
“I got completely tied up in that damned fog. It’s a long story. And I might have prevented this if I’d been on time! Listen, that must be the Inspector – I heard a car door slam.”
There were noises without and the Inspector entered. He greeted Jackson with a friendly “How d’ye do, Super?”
“These gentlemen are the relatives,” Jackson told the Inspector. “Geoffrey Hollison, the deceased’s son; Arthur Cross, the deceased’s nephew.”
Inspector James nodded gravely. Like most Scotland Yard inspectors, he might just as easily have been anything else. He was broad, grizzled, fiftyish, with keen grey eyes under thick grey brows. He looked quite human.
“This must have been a very great shock to you,” said James, taking off his overcoat. “Before we start all the unpleasantness, may I offer my sympathy?”
Geoffrey said: “Thanks, Inspector. I only hope you’re successful in finding the man who did it.”
“We’ll do our best,” said James. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll just take a look round. Everything as it was, Superintendent?”
“Pretty well, sir. I’ll give you the details.” And he went out with the Inspector, closing the door behind him.
“I still can’t believe it,” said Cross. “Fancy this happening to us! Who was it – a thief, do you think? Anything stolen?”
“No sign of anything,” said Geoffrey indifferently. “Oh, God, it doesn’t make sense – who would want to bump off the old man? He never did anyone any harm.”