Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

  It was the sight of his bicycle, safe where he had left it, which sobered him.

  His father had bought it for him two years ago. He wondered if he really had a chance to help Derek, even if he found that key. Could he trust that woman? Was she the type who would promise the world to get what she wanted?

  If he went to the police –

  The woman had said they would kill Derek. And their father had been killed, so it wasn’t an empty threat.

  He might help Derek, and so help his mother and the others, if he did just what he was told.

  It wasn’t going to be easy. He would have a job explaining where he had been, and as he cycled back, he tried to think of the best thing to say. It was half past nine before he got home, expecting his mother to be full of anxious questions.

  She wasn’t there, and he felt almost guilty relief. “Goodness knows what she would have said if she’d seen you come in like this, Micky,” said Mrs Trentham. “You look cold through. Get that coat off and change your shoes and then come and sit in front of the fire.”

  “No, I’m all right. Where is Mum?”

  “She’s gone to see your grandmother, and May’s gone with her. Now you hurry up and put some dry clothes on, and I’ll get your supper ready.”

  Micky was surprised that he was hungry, and was delighted that he didn’t have to answer a barrage of questions.

  During and after supper, all he could think about was the likely hiding place for the key. It wasn’t any use just looking – that might give the game away. It wouldn’t be in the ‘study’ or the desk; Sammy had searched there, and so had the police. It might be in his and Derek’s room, at least he could search there. He did, without finding the key.

  After a while, he began to feel desperate. The younger children were in bed, and Mrs Trentham left, at half past ten. He had the place to himself, but had no idea where to look. By eleven o’clock, he was in despair. Where would Derek hide a key or anything small? Where would he himself? Then he remembered the little box of souvenirs, old photographs, and letters in his mother’s room. Mum and Dad always hid things there, as Derek had known. He went to look; and found the key.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Night Plans

  Earlier that evening, Roger West picked up the receiver, said: “West speaking,” and waited, looking across the desk at Johnny Silver, who had drawn up a chair on the other side. All the other CIs had long since gone home. In spite of the bright fire, it was cold in the office, and Silver’s nose and ears were red; he had come in only half an hour ago, and hadn’t thawed out.

  “Might be Kilby,” Roger said.

  He was puzzled about Kilby’s long silence now, and Turnbull was at River Way, looking for the sergeant.

  “Lot of disappearing tricks in this job,” Silver said.

  Roger nodded.

  “Hallo, sir.” It wasn’t Kilby’s voice. “St John’s Wood Station reporting as requested.” It was the man watching Didi Ames’s apartment, with a dull report enlivened only by talk of the unidentified youth who’d been at the house for about two hours.

  “Didn’t get a good look at him, sir, because of the snow, but it wasn’t Derek Bryant. Too small, sir—and a thinner chap.”

  “All right,” said Roger. “Nothing else?”

  “Miss Ames left half an hour ago, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said, and rang off. “Didi’s going to do her stuff,” he said to Silver. “You’d better get a move on.”

  “Right,” said Silver.

  He went off, spruce and confident, but Roger wasn’t very hopeful. One got a feeling about the good and the bad angles, and he had one about Silver on this job, now. Pity.

  Kilby might have been better, after all.

  Kilby had vanished, into the blue.

  It was too early to get worried, Roger persuaded himself; Kilby might have followed someone, seeing that the only thing to do. He wasn’t a fool and wouldn’t do too much on his own.

  The door opened, and Turnbull came striding in. Turnbull wasn’t everyone’s friend, and there were times when he and Roger clashed badly; but they got on well as most. Now, the lion of a man was scowling, and not in one of his arrogant moods.

  “Any word from Kilby?” he asked. “No,” said Roger.

  “Damned queer thing,” Turnbull said. “I’ve checked every man I can at River Way, and the last thing I can find is that he went down to the maintenance department. I know there’s such a mob over there that they wouldn’t notice a prize bull among them, but—”

  “Come on,” Roger said, “let’s go and try again. There won’t be so many people about.”

  When they first arrived, it looked as if he was wrong, for the yard was teeming. But inside there were fewer workers and a steadier tempo. Carmichael was at his desk, and he looked up short sightedly, then gave a little sigh, put his pen down, and stood up.

  “Is this really necessary?” his look said. “No, Chief Inspector,” he answered Roger’s question. “Sergeant Kilby hasn’t returned, to the best of my knowledge. Unfortunately when a man masquerades, as he did, I have no reason to pay special attention. However, there was a report that he was seen some time this afternoon in the maintenance department.” He peered down at a note on the desk. “Ah, yes, the report was by Driver Simm.”

  “Simm still here?” asked Roger.

  “He might be in the yard,” said Carmichael, and turned to a junior. “Go and see, please.” Simm was outside.

  He came striding along, massive and cocky, and dwarfing Carmichael’s assistant. He grinned at Turnbull and winked at Roger.

  “Flipping busies,” he said, “you can tell ’em a mile off!

  Knew Kilby was one soon’s I saw him talking to you, and giving you the wink over them parcels of prime mutton.”

  “Where did you last see him?” Roger interrupted sharply.

  “Station’ry store,” said Simm, promptly. “The door was open, he was having a dekko at some brown paper. Copper, I said to meself, just let Mr Carmichael see you, and you’ll be back on the beat.”

  “And then?”

  “Door was shut when I come back,” said Simm. “I didn’t see him again.”

  “What are we waiting for?” asked Turnbull.

  Yet Roger beat him to the door.

  Kilby was still unconscious, with an ugly wound at the back of his head. A hammer, taken from maintenance depot, was found near him. On it was one of the fragmentary prints, with a tented arch and scar.

  At the far end of the stationery store, where the disinfectant smelled so strongly, there were patches of dried blood.

  Laboratory tests soon proved that it was Group O.

  The staff who had been on duty in maintenance that afternoon were now scattered all over West London. It would be useless to try to get at them tonight; the questioning would have to start in the morning.

  “And if the Postmaster won’t give me authority to take everyone’s fingerprints, I’ll get it from the Home Secretary in person,” Roger growled.

  Carmichael looked almost on the point of tears.

  Roger didn’t go back to the Yard, but telephoned from River Way. There was a report from Silver: Didi Ames wasn’t appearing at the nightclub after all, because the snow had left the West End deserted. She was back at home, and Silver sounded dispirited.

  “All right, I’ll go and see her,” Roger said. “Might be able to scare her into talking.”

  He saw the dancer.

  Undoubtedly she was a beauty, but he didn’t get the same impression as he had out of the photograph. She was as hard as they came, and clever with it.

  Yes, Derek Bryant had often been here, she said. He’d thrown his money about, and how was she to know if he hadn’t come by it honestly? Yes, his father had called to beg her to let his son go.

  “As if I cared,” Didi Ames said expressionlessly.

  She swore that she had no idea where Derek was now. She denied that she’d had a stranger here tonight; he must hav
e gone to the other flat.

  That was all; and there wasn’t another thing that the police could do.

  Roger left, driving through snow already inches thick, and coming down fast. He called at the Fulham Police Station, and checked the day’s reports from the men who had watched 72 Clapp Street since the attack on May. There was nothing remarkable, but he saw that young Micky Bryant had been out between half past five and half past nine; and within those hours a youth had called at the St John’s Wood house.

  “I’ll have a word with Micky Bryant soon,” Roger said to the Night Inspector at the station. “What about your chaps watching tonight? Can you get them under cover?”

  “Oh, yes, if that’s all right with you,” the Fulham man said.

  “No use to us if they freeze to death,” Roger said, and grinned.

  But he didn’t feel like grinning.

  A call to the hospital brought reassuring news about Kilby; there was a fracture of the skull, but no cause for alarm. Two blows had crashed Tom Bryant’s skull; one had cracked Kilby’s.

  Why had his assailant left him alive?

  Had something been hidden in that store room?

  A night squad would go over it as with a small tooth comb and would get Roger out of bed if anything was discovered. Bed? He was tired, but not by any means tired out, and there was still a job to do.

  He drove through the heavy snow, finding it easier than he had expected; the snow was soft under the wheels, and wasn’t yet icy. There was no traffic about, and he passed the end of Bell Street and headed for Fulham. When he reached Clapp Street, he saw one of the constables sheltering in the doorway of a house opposite.

  “They’re going to see if they can’t get you inside somewhere,” Roger said. “Everything all right?”

  “As far as I know, sir. That Mrs Trentham’s there—she’s a sticker, if ever there was one. Young Micky’s been out, and just got back, left his bike in the porch as if he might be going out again, but it’s a hell of a night for that.”

  “It could be because he doesn’t want to let the snow melt in the hall,” Roger said practically.

  “Didn’t think of that, sir. So it could. Mrs Bryant’s out; I had a word with her. Miss Harrison’s much better, but I expect you know that.”

  “Yes. Well, I hope they find you somewhere where you can thaw out.”

  Roger walked round to the back of the house, and had a word with the constable in the service alley. The wind was whipping along here, much worse than at the front.

  “If they can’t think of anything better I should arrange with Mrs Bryant to stay in the kitchen,” Roger said. “You’ll be able to do as much there as anywhere else.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, sir. Not expecting more trouble, are you?”

  Roger said: “Trying to make sure that it doesn’t come, that’s all. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  Roger walked back to the street. He could call and have a word with Micky now, but it was very late, and it would disturb the whole household. With a man back and front, what could go wrong? He had a look at Micky’s bicycle. An old waterproof sheet was thrown over it, already covered with snow.

  He could have arranged for a man to be on duty to follow Micky if the lad went out again, but was there any real justification? The house was the target, wasn’t it?

  He made his mistake, and decided to do nothing more tonight.

  The windshield of his car was thick with snow and he scraped it off with his hands before setting the wipers going.

  It was half past eleven when he reached home. Janet was in the front room, with a roaring fire, the newspapers and a magazine. She was flushed and looked as contented as she did snug. She’d had the next door neighbours in for an hour, the boys had been out in the snow until half past nine, and would probably be difficult to wake in the morning. The only things she had to get now were the crackers; some shops would start selling off at a discount on Christmas Eve, and she was going to wait.

  Janet’s voice, a whisky and soda and the fire thawed Roger out completely, and made him forget even the cause of the breaking in at Clapp Street.

  He didn’t give Micky Bryant another thought.

  The constable who had been on duty at the back of 72 Clapp Street was now stationed in the back room of a house on the other side of the service alley, with an electric fire and a gas ring, some cocoa, sandwiches and, secretly, a whisky flask in his hip pocket. The constable at the front of the house had a large room, and brandy instead of whisky. Both of them sat in the gloom, watching the little house and seeing it and the houses nearby showing up pale and ghostly. It was the man at the front who saw a light go on, about half past twelve, and who sat up and peered out. It was snowing more heavily than ever, but he could see clearly, because the street lamps had been left on.

  The front door opened.

  Micky Bryant came out, and closed the door behind him. He did that very slowly and stealthily, and the watching policeman felt almost certain that he was trying not to make any noise. When the door was closed, the lad stood and looked back, as if expecting to see it open again; or expecting to hear a call.

  Nothing happened.

  The bicycle had been thrust deeply into the narrow porch. Micky took the waterproof off, tossed it in a corner, then wheeled the machine out into the snow, which was at least four inches deep. Micky switched on the front lamp and mounted the machine; but he slipped and fell.

  He got up, and pushed the machine towards the gatepost, but he couldn’t avoid the policeman who came hurrying from his hiding place.

  “Bit late out, son, aren’t you?” he asked. “No trouble inside, I hope.”

  “No, not really,” Micky said. He stared into the policeman’s face, and his expression gave no hint of the fast beating of his heart. “They’re all asleep.”

  “Bed’s not a bad place on a night like this, son.” The policeman was obviously puzzled. “Where—”

  “Listen,” Micky said in what seemed a burst of confidence, “don’t give me away; Mum—Mum wouldn’t understand. I’ve hardly seen my girl since I’ve been home; she lives Edgware Road way. I can be back before Mum wakes. Be a pal.”

  The policeman was an understanding man.

  He found himself grinning.

  Crafty little so-and-so, young Micky Bryant.

  To look at him, you wouldn’t think that he had anything in him, but even the snow wasn’t going to keep him away from his girl. Quite a girl she must be, too.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Thanks ever so,” Micky said gratefully, and mounted his machine.

  Soon the red light disappeared.

  The constable went in again.

  There was just the rustle of the falling snow and the pale unreal darkness.

  The warmth of the little room beckoned him.

  It was when he was in the Wandsworth Bridge Road, not far from his home, that Micky noticed that he was being followed; or at least that someone was cycling after him. He heard nothing; but twice, when the other passed beneath a street lamp, he caught a glimpse of him there. He wasn’t worried. He had the key tucked safely in his pocket, and there was the strength of his purpose to make him forget the cold, the snow, the slippery road. He pedalled on, looking round every now and again, and fancying that he caught sight of the other man.

  He wasn’t quite sure.

  It would take him three quarters of an hour to reach the house in St John’s Wood, and he knew that it was no use hurrying. He didn’t want to be too tired, either, for there might be a fight.

  He had more than the key in his pocket; he had a sheath knife.

  The familiar roads had a strange look tonight, and he had never known London so deserted. There wasn’t a sound, except that soft rustling. Once, crossing a main road, he saw the lights of a car. When he looked behind him, the road was as empty as the road ahead. False alarm then; the other cyclist had been someone going home late.

  He drew near the Ed
gware Road. Five cars went crawling one after another, and they lit up the road a long way ahead. The scene was lovely, but Micky didn’t think about that; just the task of getting to Derek.

  He turned off the main road.

  In the side streets it was dark.

  Then he reached the corner of the street where the woman lived. No lights were on, and until he was close to the gate he couldn’t be sure which house it was; but there was a lighted window at a front room.

  He ploughed on towards the gate, which was wide open. He shone his torch, and made out the number: 18. This was it. The blinds were drawn at the window but he saw them move, suddenly – and he saw Didi standing there and looking out. Then a skid made the bicycle slither. He tried to recover his balance, felt the back wheel skid, then gave up the attempt and prepared to fall. The snow was so deep that there wasn’t any chance of hurting himself. He managed to jump clear of the bicycle. The light didn’t go out, but snaked along the snow and shone upon a bush which looked as if it was made of cotton wool.

  He looked up at the window.

  Yes, there she was, standing there and staring, she –

  He heard a sound – a thud and a cry, which was cut off short. He swung round. In the gloom he saw a man falling; he didn’t know that it was the CID man who was watching, and who had moved to get a closer view. He saw two other men – the huge George, standing over the man on the ground, and Sammy rushing at him from the wall, where he had been hiding.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fight To Death

  Micky saw the dark figure rushing towards him with an arm upraised and a weapon in it. He couldn’t tell what the weapon was. The light from the window and the light from the cycle lamp were just enough to show that he had been out in the snow for a long time; his shoulders were covered with it and the front of his coat seemed to hold as much snow as Micky’s.