by John Creasey
“Yes, but the shops are shut.”
“Oh,” said Janet, as if disappointed. “The thing is, dear, Mrs. Ramsden has some American cousins over from New York or New somewhere, and she’s asked me to go and have a fork supper with them. It’s a hen party, and—”
Roger found himself chuckling aloud.
“You go and cackle,” he said. “I can find plenty to do, but I warn you that without your commanding presence the chances of the lawns getting cut are negligible.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about the lawns,” interrupted Janet. “I gave young Freddy Smith half a crown to cut them after school, and he’s done quite a good job. Can you get a meal out, or shall I leave something?”
“I’ll eat out,” Roger promised. “Expensively.”
“I don’t mind how much you spend,” said Janet. “Are you sure you won’t mind?”
“Don’t stay out too late,” urged Roger.
Janet laughed; he laughed; and they rang off. Roger pushed his chair back after a moment’s amused reflection, and went across to the window for an illusion of coolness; and as he reached it, the leaves of the plane trees on the Embankment actually rustled, and the glass-smooth surface of the water seemed as if it were ruffled, too. Three pleasure craft were coming down stream, a few small craft were being rowed; a police launch passed at slow speed. Roger poked his fingers through hair which was damp with sweat. He could drive out to Imber Court, and have a yarn with whoever was energetic enough to be playing tennis or cricket, he could have a swim, or he could go to a good London restaurant and have a trencherman’s meal. The luxury of an evening completely off was unusual; and, a little wryly, he found that he was mildly disappointed. How long had he been married? Twenty odd years, and—but he mustn’t let Janet catch him saying “twenty-odd”. Nearly twenty-three.
He signed four more letters, pushed his chair back, and was about to get up when the telephone rang again.
“West speaking,” he answered.
“Hiyah, Handsome,” said a man with a markedly Cockney accent. “You in a good mood tonight?”
“No,” said Roger promptly. “What’s up?” The speaker was Chief Superintendent Bellew, from the Clapham Division, an old Yard friend recently given the Superintendency of the Division; Bellew was a man of his own age, whom he both respected and liked.
“We’ve got a nasty one,” said Bellew, “and the Big White Chief is out.”
“You tried Hardy?”
“He’s gone home, too,” said Bellew, and added with a mock growl: “Comes to something when the Assistant Commissioner and the Commander C.I.D. watch the clock like that, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t mind betting you’re the only senior officer on the spot, Mr. West.”
Roger said: “What’s the job, Jack?”
“A woman was attacked in her shop, late this afternoon— less than an hour ago, I’d say. Done for, if the doc’s right,” Bellew gloomed. “The husband’s nearly off his head. I’m speaking from a telephone round the corner from the shop, didn’t want to ask if you could come with the rest of the Metropolitan Police able to pick up the request on the air. Looks like a cash register robbery, and the woman caught the swine in the act. Bashed her about with some canned fruit, or something.”
After a moment’s pause, Roger said: “What have you done, so far?”
“Next to nothing, Handsome,” said Bellew. “It’s the land of job where the Yard wants to get in quick, and I’d rather you were on it than anyone else. Old Dammit’s with the woman now, she’ll be in an ambulance in the next five minutes. Old Dammit says there isn’t a chance in a thousand, too much bleeding, but she’s still alive. I’m doing all the usual, but—”
“Give me the address, will you?” Roger said.
“Kemp Road, not far from Clapham Common Road,” replied Bellew. “Where you used to mess around on the Rae-burn job.”
“Have a man waiting for me at the corner of Clapham Common Road and the High Street,” said Roger. “I’ll be there in about half an hour. We can square it with the Old Man in the morning.”
“Thanks, Handsome.” Bellew’s tone was lighter. “You’re a pal.”
Roger said: “I don’t know whether you are, yet,” and rang off. He sat staring at the signed letters, the top one of which was to a North Country Police Force about a man who had “stolen” his own daughter from his estranged wife; the variety and the degrees of the crimes which passed through the hands of the Yard seemed inexhaustible. He stood up and went to the corner where he kept his “bag”, a case rather like a doctor’s, and which contained everything he was likely to need on an investigation. He did not have to check it, for he always kept it at the ready. He pressed a bell on his desk, and a grey-haired messenger came in.
“Post those letters for me, Joe, and tell Information I’m going over to Clapham, at Mr. Bellew’s request.”
“Oh, are you, sir? Give my regards to Mr. Bellew, won’t you?” The messenger probably knew more senior officers of the Metropolitan Police than anyone else at the Yard. “What kind of job?”
“Could be murder.”
“Well, so long as you don’t forget to give my regards to Mr. Bellew,” said the messenger.
Roger smiled, went out, waited for the lift, and then strode out into the sticky warmth of the evening. It was even hotter than he had realised, and heat haze rose shimmering off the macadam of the Yard. The courtyard itself had a bare and empty between six-and-seven o’clock kind of look, but several men were standing about and talking. Roger waved, then went to his own car, a black Humber. As he opened the door, he realised that he hadn’t left the windows down that morning, and when he got in it was like sitting in an oven. Irritably, he opened the windows; at least movement would cool the car down a bit. A policeman at the Embankment gate waved him on, and he swung right, towards Westminster Bridge; the traffic on the far side would be thinner than here, and in any case he had missed the thickest of the rush hour hold-ups. Big Ben was striking the quarter past six as he turned left at the filter-light, and on to the bridge.
He kept thinking of a woman being battered with a tin of fruit; somehow, that made the affair hideous. And he kept reminding himself that the assailant was somewhere among London’s sweating eight millions: one man with a heavy weight on his conscience.
Or a man without a conscience.
He wished he were going home to cut those lawns.
Ringed round with white chalk circles on the floor of the shop, near the doorway leading to the back of the shop, were three tins of Golden Syrup. The lid of one of these had come off when it had been used as a weapon, and the thick syrup had oozed out, so that it spread over an area nearly too wide for a man to step across; at one patch, blood was mixed with it. Other chalked white lines surrounded patches of blood, and someone had shown sense and initiative by tapping some nails into the blue linoleum, and twisting white cotton round each one to make an outline of the woman’s body; there was too much syrup and blood for chalk marks. One spot had been marked with a loop of string, and inside it was a piece of a finger-nail; the nail must have been too long, and it was dirty.
Bellew, a very big man who looked like the popular idea of a sailor, was standing against the counter. His double-breasted navy blue suit was a little too tight for him, and shiny at the seat and across the shoulders. Roger was looking at some notes that Bellew had made; notes of things he had already started to do. One was a door-to-door call on every house in Kemp Road and the turnings off, to find out if anyone had seen the man who had done this dreadful thing. Another note said that James Stone, the husband, had gone to the hospital with his wife. The police surgeon had gone to the hospital, too.
Outside, Roger knew, a hundred or so people had been attracted by the news, the ambulances and the rumours. He had seen at least a dozen youths on cycles, several motor-cyclists, and more than twenty people walking towards the corner shop. The Press would be here before long, if it wasn’t already represented.
He went to the
till. The drawer was open, and a few pieces of small silver as well as a section full of pennies, halfpennies and threepenny pieces were on view. Some chalk marks were on the handle, too, and on the front of the drawer.
“Could be fingerprints there,” Bellew said. “Thought we’d better make sure.”
“Yes. Could be. Any children?”
“One on the way.”
“None at school?”
“Childless couple,” Bellew said.
“How many men have you out checking?”
“Twenty-four. Fairly quiet afternoon for my chaps, and I slapped ‘em all on to overtime. Got a few grumbles until they knew what it was about.”
“Daresay you did,” said Roger. He looked and felt very bleak. “Anyone any idea how much cash there was in the till?”
“No, but most Thursday nights they have about forty quid. I saw that in the paying-in book of the bank, for Fridays.”
“All this, for forty pounds,” Roger said heavily. “It doesn’t seem to make sense. Any other man in the woman’s life?”
“Dunno yet, but judging from a neighbour, they were very happy about a kid being on the way.”
“Hm, Better check as usual, though—it might not be just what it seems to be.” Roger stretched out his hand and picked up one of the tins of Golden Syrup. “Always did think these weighed heavy,” he remarked. “Jack, this is a job for Appleby, if I can get him. Anyone used that telephone?”
“It had some of the woman’s dabs on, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. He lifted the receiver and dialled a St. John’s Wood number. From outside, a man said: “Keep back, please.” It was very warm in the shop, and there was no cross breeze, no hint of coolness. As he listened to the ringing sound, Roger looked at the big man with him, and the half-dozen other men who were taking photographs, searching for finger and footprints, going through all the routine of the early stages of an investigation. Bellew had directed them well; no one would touch anything that even looked like a clue.
“Jack, I’ve been thinking,” Roger began, and then the ringing sound broke off, and a woman announced:
“This is Dr. Appleby’s house.”
“Is Dr. Appleby in, please?” As Roger asked his tone changed, reminding him immediately of Janet’s; like her he wanted to make a good impression.
“He is, but he’s in the bath,” the woman said, irritably. “Who is that?”
“Superintendent West speaking, ma’am.”
“Oh, damn!” the woman said, vexedly. “You don’t want to drag him out tonight, do you?”
“I think he ought to know about this case,” Roger said. “I’m really sorry.”
After a pause, the woman said: “Well, I’ll see if he can come,” and with ill grace she banged down the receiver. Roger grimaced. Bellew shrugged, and eased his collar, and the policeman outside raised his voice to the crowd: “Get back, I tell you.”
“Jack,” said Roger, very thoughtfully, “how many shop robberies have you had recently?”
“Haifa dozen or so this month, I suppose,” Bellew answered at once. “What’s on your mind?”
“Just a thought,” said Roger. “How many with violence?”
“One here and there,” said Bellew, “but none so vicious as this.”
“That’s as well.”
“Shop raids come in waves,” said Bellew. “You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes,” agreed Roger. “See those shelves packed with cigarettes?”
Bellew swivelled round. The narrow shelves with a few cigarettes were near the cash register, easy for handing to a customer at the till. There were a dozen different brands, but only a few packets of each; two of the piles had obviously been disturbed.
“Better find out what kind of stock of cigarettes they carried, and whether any stocks were taken,” Roger said. “A regular customer should know. I—oh, hallo, Doc.” He heard Dr. Dan Appleby’s voice, with its familiar: “Now what’s all this about?” and he gave Appleby time to grumble before he went on:
“I’d very much like you to come over to Kemp Road, Clapham, where there’s been a shop robbery, a woman badly injured and probably dying, and a lot of blood.”
“Be right over,” answered Appleby.
“Dan!” came a protesting voice further away from the telephone.
“Thanks very much,” said Roger. He rang off, pleased, and immediately heard a woman’s voice raised, outside in the street. He was thinking so much about Dan Appleby and his home problem, and about the idea which had struck him about other shop robberies, that he didn’t pay the woman much attention. Then suddenly her words pierced the protecting veil of thought.
“I tell you I must go inside and see my son.”
Bellew said: “Oh, Gawd,” and Roger’s mind was jolted off everything except the fact that the woman outside was the stricken husband’s mother. And he would have to see her.
III
APPLEBY
ROGER nodded to Bellew, who walked across to the door, careful to avoid treading where there were any marks. He reached it as a policeman tapped. Bellew opened the door, and Roger caught sight of a small, well-preserved woman, dressed in a tailored suit of pale green, a big policeman behind her, a crowd of fifty or sixty people pressing close, and a tall newspaperman whom he recognised as from the Daily Echo. The policeman looked hot and flustered. Another man, out of sight, said exasperatedly: “Keep back, please.”
Bellew stood aside for the neatly dressed woman to enter. She looked surprisingly cool, although her forehead was damp, and so was the grey hair which grew in a pronounced widow’s peak. Bellew stepped outside, obviously to give his men instructions, perhaps partly to leave this difficult moment to Roger.
The woman hardly came up to Roger’s shoulder. She had clear, very pale blue eyes and small features. She was well-dressed and neatly made-up. He judged her to be in the middle fifties.
“I’m very sorry about this,” Roger said. “I’m Chief Detective Superintendent West, of New Scotland Yard.” By saying that slowly, he always managed to gain a few seconds, and it seemed to make what he had to say more significant. “Do I understand that you are Mr. Stone’s mother?”
“I am,” she said. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone to the hospital, with your daughter-in-law,” Roger answered, gently. “I’m afraid that she’s very badly hurt.”
Mrs. Stone said: “Oh.” It was hard to judge what she felt, possible only to see that she was giving herself time to get used to this situation. Roger wondered how much she had heard, how distorted rumour had been. “Oh,” she said, again, and for a moment closed her eyes. “She isn’t—” she broke off.
“Her injuries haven’t yet proved fatal,” Roger said, still gently. He looked round and pulled up a stool, and held it in position. “Won’t you sit down?”
She ignored the invitation as she went on sharply:
“How bad is she?”
“Very badly injured, I’m afraid.”
“Is my—is my son all right?”
“Perfectly, except for the shock.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes, of course. Shock. Can I—can I go to the hospital at once, please? May I phone for a taxi?” She glanced at the telephone. “I must go and see my son.”
“I’ll put a car at your disposal,” Roger promised. “Will you give us a little help before you go?” When she stood without answering, he went on : “How did you come to hear of this, Mrs. Stone?”
“A friend from across the road, a Mrs. Jackson, telephoned and told me something had happened, there was an ambulance outside here.” She bit her lips. “Are you sure my son isn’t hurt?”
“Quite sure, Mrs. Stone. He wasn’t here when it happened.”
“When what happened?” she demanded, and suddenly her voice rose. “Why doesn’t someone tell me what happened to my daughter-in-law?”
Roger told the story briskly. The news seemed to quieten, even to numb her. Roger sent her to the
hospital in one of the Divisional cars, and spent ten more minutes with Bellew, who had brought uniformed reinforcements to control the crowd, and was much happier. Reports from several neighbours made it clear that Stone had been out on his delivery, and one old woman, a Mrs. Klein, had said that she had seen Mabel at 5.15, at her living-room window; another had said that Stone had returned just before half past five. At least they had narrowed down the time of the attack.
“The mother’s a cut above the daughter-in-law,” Bellew remarked. “Wonder if any of my chaps know anything about her.”
“Will you find out and let me know?” asked Roger.
Then Dan Appleby arrived.
Roger could remember the time when he, as the youngest Chief Inspector at the Yard, had nevertheless been old enough to feel some resentment towards the pathologist when Appleby had first been appointed by the Home Office. Then—as now— he had seemed to be little more than a boy. No one knew how he did it, but he always managed to look as if a shave once a week was all he needed. He had very fair, downy hair, and darker eyebrows and lashes, which gave him a startled, ingenuous appearance, as if he were constantly in a state of surprise. To make the general impression worse, he stammered slightly, especially when thinking ahead. It had seemed impossible that a lad fresh from medical school could possibly be of service to experienced detectives who were twice and some even thrice his age. But after five years, every Yard man who was in a hurry tried to get Appleby. He had an astounding faculty of observation and of interpreting what he observed.
Appleby entered the shop, blinking a little, upper lip beaded with sweat, making the sparse hairs look slightly dirty. He carried a black bag rather like Roger’s; he wore a biscuit coloured linen coat and a pair of thick flannel trousers. He looked round the shop, then up at the ceiling, then at the door and the floor, before he glanced at Roger and said:
“My w-w-w-wife hates you.”
“Well,” Roger said, “I didn’t marry her.”
“That’s a p-p-p-point,” said Appleby. “Keeping c-c-cool?” He didn’t offer to shake hands, but squatted on his haunches, and studied the chalk marks and the blood. Then he stood up and studied the treacle tins. “She dead or alive?”