Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  The Inspector and the Superintendent were having a hardly less gloomy session in the Super’s office. James had his feet up, his pipe alight, and a pair of spectacles on his nose. He was reading through his notes all over again. The Superintendent was sitting anxiously forward at his desk, his elbows on the table, waiting for the Inspector to have an idea. His faith in James was getting a bit ragged at the edges.

  Finally the Inspector flung his notebook on to the desk and swore savagely.

  “It’s no good,” he said. “Cross was right. In spite of what I told him. The damned case is as good as closed. The only real hope was that someone would come forward who’d seen something – and no one has. You’d think that at some stage someone would have noticed something funny, wouldn’t you? People in this country mind their own business too much, that’s the trouble. Too tolerant. See a man cutting his wife’s throat in the street and put it down to eccentricity! ... I’ve been through all the dead man’s papers – there’s not a hint of any trouble anywhere. I’ve seen his solicitor and his bank manager. Blanks everywhere. It’s all most unsatisfactory ... nags at you, that’s what it does. All the little things point to Cross, and yet ...”

  Jackson tried to think of something helpful to contribute. “There’s no smoke without fire,” he said.

  “No? I read those sworn statements again last night,” said James wearily. “In the face of that evidence you wouldn’t get a conviction even if Cross had told somebody that very day that he was going to do it, even if he’d been heard quarrelling with his uncle, even if he’d been found soaked in blood from head to foot!” James banged on the desk in his exasperation. “He wasn’t there, blast his eyes! Hell – what’s the good of bellyaching? I may as well admit that this is my worst failure. I’ll have to report the case as a total loss. The only thing that can still save us is a stroke of luck. We deserve one – we haven’t had any. Isn’t it true that every murderer makes one mistake? No, don’t say it – I know the answer. It isn’t true. Some murderers get away with it. But when you think of all the complex details that go to make up a murder like this – the planning, the execution, the coherent story the murderer has to tell afterwards – you’d think that something would go wrong somewhere. Cross has an answer for everything – some of them aren’t very good answers, but they serve.”

  The Inspector sighed and got up. “Well, I’m going back to the Yard to take the rap. Maybe the Assistant Commissioner will be able to see a little daylight through the problem. But I doubt it.”

  Cross was far from gloomy. The inquest had not given him a moment’s worry. There had been no surprises of any sort. Whatever suspicions the Inspector might have had, he had given no hint of them. He had been completely stymied by the alibi. Cross had been too clever for him.

  Now it was possible to begin planning ahead with some assurance. Sooner or later it would be necessary to sell out his share of the business – what he needed was limitless cash. But he mustn’t be too hasty – there were currency restrictions for people going abroad, and the business might be a help. He could say he was off to South America to collect export orders or open a branch or something. Once he was there he would be able to find a way of getting round the currency regulations. Plenty of people did.

  He let his imagination play with many attractive possibilities. Rio was a fine civilized city – by all accounts there wasn’t a better place in the world for a man with lots of money. No food shortage there, no housing problem, plenty of red meat. He would get himself a dark-eyed Spanish mistress – as lovely as Geoffrey’s little piece, but not so goody-goody and serious. A sophisticated woman – someone who knew what it was all about – someone you could have fun with. He’d rent a luxurious flat with a splendid view over the harbour. He’d have an enormous limousine and a fast sports car as well, of course, for getting around outside town. Then he’d have a ranch or villa, or whatever they called them – haciendas? – those brilliant white houses with sunny verandahs and flowers up the wall. And lots of servants. He’d entertain – perhaps become quite a figure in the place. There must be a large foreign colony, and he was good at the social stuff. He could always seduce some of the diplomats’ wives if he got bored. He could travel a bit if he felt like it – Hawaii, perhaps, or the West Indies. Warm places, with golden beaches, exotic clothes, beautiful women, and plenty of leisure for everything. Swimming, surf-bathing, aquaplaning, speedboats. His imagination rioted. And he wouldn’t need to worry any more – nobody would think of looking for him there, and if they did they wouldn’t be able to touch him. How right he had been to take those few risks he had taken! A bit of a gamble, a reasonable gamble, and it had come off brilliantly.

  He felt even more cheerful the next evening. Uncle Charles had been buried. It had been a bit tedious putting on an air of gloom all day, but now one could relax a bit. Hollison’s solicitor had paid a respectful call on the two heirs at the house in Welford Avenue. Uncle Charles had been as good as his word – Cross had always felt that he could trust Uncle Charles. The old boy had been straight – a decent, reliable type. There was more money even than Cross had imagined – a whole string of first-class investments, as well as the business, and a third of all of it went to ‘my very dear nephew Arthur’. The investments were as good as cash, and there would be no difficulty now in raising an overdraft for any amount at the bank. He and Geoffrey had talked about the business, and decided to begin looking around for a buyer. Uncle Charles had not made any provision about keeping the business in the family, bless him – hadn’t even expressed a wish. He had attached no strings at all. There was a useful lump sum for Mrs. Armstrong, and a few jewels for Geoffrey’s wife if and when he married, and some personal oddments for Geoffrey, and a thoughtful provision or two for old employees. Cross didn’t mind that – didn’t even mind Geoffrey’s two-thirds. He could afford to be generous. Geoffrey, of course, had tried to give the impression that he was indifferent about the whole thing, but he’d find the money useful enough later on, particularly if he married that girl. Lucky chap, Geoffrey – but Cross wasn’t jealous. One good-looker was very like another, and she didn’t give the impression of having much experience. She was a peach, certainly, but there were plenty more on the tree and Cross was in a position to give it a good shake.

  Geoffrey had asked him to stay at Welford Avenue for a bite of food, and Cross had agreed – reluctantly. The fact was that Geoffrey’s long face gave him a pain in the stomach. Absurd to take these things so hard. Damn it, the old man had to die some time, and it had been a nice quick death.

  Cross returned to his flat about nine. He would have a quiet couple of hours with a book, and a few drinks, and then go to bed. After all, it had been rather an exacting day. He took a newspaper out of the letter-box as he went in, and after he had got himself a whisky he settled down to read it. It was one of the local papers – the Gazette – and it carried a verbatim account of the inquest. Cross read the report carefully, and found it entirely satisfactory. His own evidence, he thought, gave just the right impression. He had said neither too much nor too little. There had been no sticky questions or unpleasant innuendoes from the coroner. “Would you care to tell us, Mr. Cross, how you yourself spent the evening?” And Cross had told him, all right – just a shade off-hand, just sufficiently frank. “Thank you very much, Mr. Cross, for that very lucid statement.” All the essential details, without too much padding. The newspaper had managed to get Geoffrey’s picture and his own picture – heaven knew how – and there was a photograph of the house in Welford Avenue and a little sketch of the hall, with an X marking where the body had lain. There was no photograph of the bombed house, Cross noted with a smile. No one had seemed particularly interested in the account of his misadventure there – and why should they have been? It mattered to him, but not to anyone else. The paper was much more interested in Pamela Whitworth. It carried her picture, too – full length, taken just before the inquest, by the look of it. It did her less than justice, Cross
thought – didn’t show her curves. There was quite a chunk of biographical detail about her, too. It had certainly been a wonderful case for the Press.

  He threw the paper aside and poured another drink. Peace, perfect peace! He was just toying with the idea of taking a leisurely bath and turning in with a new thriller when he heard a step outside his door, and the bell suddenly shrilled. Odd, since he wasn’t expecting anybody – it was most rare for him to have callers in the evenings. Surely it couldn’t be the Inspector again? If so the play-acting wasn’t over after all. Or his past catching up on him just when everything was rosy? He opened the door with frozen features. It was a woman.

  “Mr. Arthur Cross?” she asked.

  “That’s quite right.”

  “I wondered if I could speak to you for a minute.”

  “Of course,” said Cross, disrobing her with an expert eye. Never let it be said that he had refused admission to a young woman! “Come in.”

  She walked in, self-consciously diffident, and Cross examined her. She was fairly young – twenty-five to thirty – and easy on the eye. She brought with her into the room the odour of cheap, heavy scent of a sort with which Cross was not unfamiliar. She wore a fur coat which had once clothed quite a number of rabbits. She was spectacularly blonde, with hair done up Edwardian fashion and surmounted by a hat consisting mainly of purple gauze. Three little blonde ringlets were carefully arranged across the upper part of her forehead.

  “Have a chair,” said Cross politely.

  “Thanks,” said the girl. “I don’t mind if I do.” There was a thin veneer of studied refinement in her voice, overlaying a solid foundation of Cockney. She sat back, loosened her coat and revealed a luscious figure. She crossed one leg over the other provocatively, and smiled. Cross noticed that she had a small button mouth, enlarged and re-shaped by thickly-applied lipstick.

  “Lovely place you have here,” she said, gazing around admiringly.

  “Not bad,” said Cross.

  “I bet you have a good time here.”

  “What exactly have you come to see me about, Miss ...?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Garton – Doris Garton. I live at Kingston. I work in Cutter’s – you know, the dress shop in Market Street. Lady assistant.”

  “Oh, yes. Would you care for a cigarette?” Cross was feeling his way.

  “Well, since you ask me I won’t say no. Players? I reely prefer Luckies. Still, we can’t be choosy these days, can we?” She took a lighter from a purple handbag and flicked it on before Cross could make a move. “Nice lighter, isn’t it?” she said. “Came all the way from America. Given me by a gentleman friend.”

  “Reely?” said Cross. “Look, Miss Garton: do tell me why you’ve come. I’m most charmed, of course, but ... well, it is getting a bit late. I was just thinking of going to bed.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” said the girl impudently.

  “You’re a fast worker,” said Cross. “Just feeling lonely? Or what?”

  “Well, if you want to know, Mr. Cross, it’s like this. You see, when I finished work last night I just happened to buy a paper, and I read all about the inquest on that poor man that was hit over the head.”

  “You mean my uncle?” said Cross. He sat down. Somehow he felt less interested in Miss Garton’s legs than he had thought he was going to be.

  “That’s right. Wasn’t it orful? I felt so sorry for his son – the naval commander. Such a handsome man in his uniform, with that curly hair and nice smile.”

  “Please go on,” said Cross.

  “Well, it was so interesting I read all through it – every word. All about that lady doctor, and the blood, and Mr. Hollison being on his way to the house, and you being lost in the fog, and no one knowing anything about what happened. It made me feel quite funny.”

  “I’m sure it did. I still don’t see to what I owe the pleasure of this visit.”

  “Coo, how you talk! I’m just coming to that. I read everything you said to the coroner. About the people you picked up in your car, and how you got lost with them, and how you suddenly found yourself in Hamley Avenue by mistake. And how you got out to ask the way and found yourself in a bombed house, and fell over and hurt yourself. It was such an interesting story, with the fog and all – mysterious, just like the pictures. I love the pictures, don’t you?”

  “I think there’s something to be said for a good murder now and again,” said Cross coolly. “I still don’t see what all this has got to do with you, Miss Garton.”

  “I’m coming to it – you mustn’t hurry me.” She giggled, and Cross winced. “You see, I wasn’t a lady assistant till quite recently – I was in the A.T.S., you know. But I didn’t like it – I always say a girl’s figure never looks its best in uniform.” She uncrossed her legs, and crossed them the other way. “Do you think it does?”

  “Come on, Doris, tell me what’s on your mind,” said Cross.

  “I say – bit familiar, aren’t you? Anyway, what I was saying was that I was in the A.T.S., and I had a gentleman friend. He was an American, a sergeant. He always said he wanted to marry me. We got on a treat. It was him that gave me these nylons.” She showed him a good deal more than her nylons. “And he taught me to chew gum.” Again she giggled. “Well, to cut a long story short, he had to go back to America last week. He said he’d get everything ready for me and then I could go over in a liner and be a G.I. bride. We were reely going to the pictures when he told me, but he said he’d like a bit of a walk. I thought it was silly, because it was Thursday – ever so foggy, it was, and you could hardly see where you were going, but he said that was a good thing. He said he wanted to be alone with me. You know what men are – they all want the same thing. We walked about for a bit, and he said didn’t I know anywhere quiet? I said I was cold, but he said he was steamed up enough for both of us. So then I said, since we were in Hamley Avenue – ooh, you’ve dropped your cigarette, Mr. Cross.”

  “That’s all right,” said Cross. “Go on.”

  “...Since we were in Hamley Avenue, I did happen to know there was a bombed house where we could be quiet for a bit.” She simpered. “I wouldn’t like you to think I make a practice of that sort of thing, Mr. Cross, but – well, between ourselves I had been there just once before, with a Polish officer I felt sorry for, and it was fairly comfy, if you knew where the broken glass was. So we went in there. It was quite easy, reely, because he had a torch, and there was an old settee that somebody had left. Anyway, it was cold, but after all, it was his last night. He said he wanted me to have something to remember him by.”

  “Well?” said Cross.

  “It’s a funny thing, Mr. Cross, but in this paper you say that you were there as well. About eight o’clock, you say. Now Cy and me, we got there at half past seven and we were there till half past eight – I always say a girl shouldn’t let a man have his way too quickly, even if it is foggy. And nobody came near us all that time. I mean, we should’ve known, shouldn’t we? So when you told the coroner you were there, I thought maybe there was some mistake, and that I’d better come and see you about it.”

  Cross pretended relief. “If there’s any mistake it must be yours, Doris,” he said good-naturedly. “I was certainly there, as I said in the evidence. The two people who were with me know that I was. I can only suppose you were having such a good time that you didn’t notice what was going on around you.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Doris sharply. “I’m not as silly as all that. Not with men, I’m not. Besides, there was always the chance a policeman might decide to have a look-see, and I don’t want my name in the papers – not in that way. They wouldn’t like it at the shop. I was keeping one ear open all the time, and there wasn’t the tiniest sound. You say –” she picked up the paper – “... you say that you knocked twice on the door – loud, you say – and that you called out, ‘Is anyone there?’ Well, now, don’t you think we’d have heard you if you’d done that – with the front door half open and al
l? And you say you fell over something. We’d have heard that, too.” She held out a neat foot, and appeared to be admiring the shoe. “Why, Mr. Cross, I could swear on my oath that from half past seven till half past eight last Thursday no one came anywhere near that house except us.”

  Cross got up. “I don’t know what your game is, Doris, but if you aren’t very careful something worse is going to happen to you than getting your name in the papers. There’s such a thing as slander and perjury, you know. The first costs you a lot of money, and for the second you go to jail. I was with two very respectable people that night – a man from the Foreign Office, for one thing – and they know perfectly well where I was and what I was doing. Either you’ve made a silly mistake, or else you’re deliberately trying to make trouble – and that’s dangerous.”

  “So that’s your tone, is it?” said Doris shrilly, suddenly leaning forward and shedding the illusion of feminine softness like a coat. “Well let me tell you, Mr. Clever, that it doesn’t look so good for you, either. I don’t know what you were up to that night, but there were some very funny things going on. Very funny, if you ask me. And I know you weren’t where you said you were.”

  “There’s only your word for it,” said Cross contemptuously. “Do you think anyone would believe your ridiculous story – that is, if you dared to tell it? I’d like to see you in court, explaining how you spent the evening in a bombed house with an American soldier.”

  “Be your age,” said Doris. “It’s always happening. Maybe I wouldn’t like talking about it, but if I thought it was my duty—”

  Cross laughed harshly. “Your duty! Don’t be funny. Anyway, I tell you nobody would believe you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Doris. She got up and reached for her coat. “If you ask me, the police’ll be very interested.”

  Cross took a deep breath. A great pit had opened in front of him, and he felt a little giddy. He could see there were two ways of handling the situation, but one was too dangerous to risk. He’d never be able to get rid of her body. He must play for time.