by John Creasey
“Hate it,” he made himself say.
“There’s where I keep the drinks,” she said, and pointed to a small wall cupboard in a corner. “You needn’t be too mean with the whisky, I’ve another bottle tucked away somewhere.” She hurried out of the living-room, the room where she had seen the plump man who had come to her just after her husband’s death, and into the kitchen. He heard the pop of gas, saw her bending down at the oven, adjusting the flame, then saw and heard her take down dishes and plates, and heard the rustle of paper. She was an efficient little person.
He opened the corner cupboard and found glasses and the whisky, some gin, a bottle of Noilly Prat and a bottle of Cinzano, as well as some Babychams. He poured himself a stiff whisky, and sipped it. Ruth was out of sight now, and he called:
“What will you have, Ruth?”
“I think I’d like one of those little bottles of Babycham,” she called, and a moment later appeared, flushed from the heat of the stove. “Pour it out for me, Cy love.” She flashed a bright roguish smile at him as she passed, and touched his hand; then he heard her hurrying up the stairs. He drank more of the whisky, pondering. If he walked out now he would never be able to win her confidence; if he stayed now he might be making serious trouble for himself.
He heard her moving about. He took down two bottles of the “champagne”, and hesitated, then took down two champagne glasses.
“I started it, I’ll finish it,” he said, and tossed the rest of the whisky down. The decision gave him a curious sense of relief, and his heart began to throb. He listened intently, and heard Ruth padding about, presumably in her slippers. She was a long time if she was just changing her shoes. He half finished his second drink, and then heard a soft, rustling sound in the passage; it scared him, and he jumped forward.
She was coming towards him from the foot of the staircase, wearing a flimsy gauze-like housecoat which hid very little, even when she was in the gloom of the passage. As she came into the brighter light of the living-room, he could see through the gauze almost as if through glass. He had never imagined a fuller, firmer, more seductive figure. The delight in her eyes, the promise and the hope, were unmistakable.
“I just had to change, Cy,” she whispered, and came towards him. He didn’t move. She drew up close to him, and slid her arms round him, pressing her body against his. “Cy,” she said, “I can make this couch into a bed, or we can go upstairs. Which would you rather?”
He moistened his lips. “Ruth, that fish’ll get baked.”
She put her head back and laughed at him, and he saw how white and beautifully even her teeth were. He tightened his grip round her shoulders, and then hoisted her in his arms.
Then he carried her upstairs.
“Cy,” she said, afterwards, “I hope you don’t think I’m terrible.”
“I think you’re wonderful.” Owen didn’t speak.
“Cy,” said Ruth, lying on her side, quite naked, quite lovely, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Listen, Ruth—”
“I’ve just got to tell you,” she insisted. “I was married to my husband for five years, and I hated it. I hated—I hated having to give in to him. I just hated him. I didn’t realise anything could be so wonderful, but when I first saw you, I knew—I knew we would just have to get to know each other better. You—you felt like that too, didn’t you?”
Owen moistened his lips.
“Of course I did.”
“There’s something about you,” Ruth said, and she half closed her eyes; he had never realised before how curly and long her black eyelashes were. “You—you’re the first man I’ve ever really been interested in, that’s the honest truth. After my husband died—after he was murdered, I mean—I didn’t think I’d ever have anything to do with men again. I hated them all. I even hated the police—they kept asking me questions all the time, as if they didn’t believe me, but they might just as well. My husband’s like a bad dream, now, but it wasn’t until I met you that I realised I was absolutely free from him, free from everything.”
“What about his friends?” Owen made himself ask.
“I didn’t know any of his friends,” said Ruth, in a low-pitched voice. “I didn’t want to, either. Cy, I’m telling you the honest truth, I hated him. I just had to put up with him, he frightened me so much. If you knew how he treated me . . .”
It was as if the passion of their union had released some store of memory, as if she had been repressing all these things for a long time, and now had to talk about them. Owen let her talk. She had a soothing voice, and she talked without heat and without venom, telling him how she had hated Endi-cott, showing him the scars she bore, and he prompted her now and again, so that she went on talking lazily, sometimes taking his hand and fondling it.
It was much later, downstairs, as they ate the fish and chips, which had gone a little soggy, that he noticed the sea shells in a drawer of the corner cupboard, where he was looking for a bottle opener. He didn’t give them a thought. There were a dozen of them or more, all little pink sea-shore shells which he noticed as he did everything.
XVI
REPORT
THE morning’s reports showed very little advance on those of the night before. Neither of the men caught by Constable O’Hara had yet been identified, and neither had made any kind of statement; they were due at the South-West Police Court some time before three o’clock, but at the moment there was no name under which to charge them. A flimsy paper mask of the kind sold to children had been discovered near one of the raided shops. None of the injured shopkeepers had been detained in hospital. The newspapers used the story as the main lead on the front pages, but there was no editorial comment. He, Roger, was mentioned in every newspaper as the Yard man in charge of the investigation.
He spent ten minutes sticking more location pins into the wall map. At ten o’clock, the door opened after a light tap, and Hardy came in. He was wearing a brown suit, and he looked spruce and a little too well-brushed.
“Good morning, Handsome.” Hardy was usually formal, because he had come up from the ranks and his post as Commander sometimes sat heavily on him. “Is there any news? I’m due to see the Assistant Commissioner at half past ten.”
“I’ll have a brief report ready and typed out by then,” said Roger.
“Good. Is there any clue at all?”
“There’s a queer little thing which might mean nothing,” said Roger, and pointed to the shells. “If Endicott had had one, I’d be more inclined to think they had some significance, but there was plenty of time for anything in his pockets to be removed. I wonder if there are any shells at his house?”
“How about his widow?”
Roger said: “Young Owen’s seeing what he can find out from her.” He didn’t mention the message from Charlie Baker. Hardy studied the winkle shell, the little fan shell and the lobster claw. “There are no prints except those of the two men on anything,” Roger went on. “These aren’t on our files, and neither will talk. As for the motor-scooters, tens of thousands of them are fitted with luggage containers—that’s no help. The sack was home made, of strong plastic.”
“Any conclusions?” asked Hardy.
“None at all.”
Hardy stood there like a frustrated sergeant major.
“Think it might spread?”
“They worked on four Divisions,” Roger said, “and they can have a go at any others they like. The almost certain thing is that next time they’ll change the venue. Mass raids on supermarkets could be the next on the list.”
“I read your report about the interview with Slessor, of Cockell Shops,” said Hardy. “Do these supermarkets have to employ many dubious characters?”
“If each Cockell Shop, or any big supermarket, had one inside man, we could really have big-scale trouble,” Roger said, “and they can’t be sure whom they’re employing. It’s too easy to forge a reference.”
Hardy shrugged, said: “Well, keep trying,”
and went out.
Roger sent the sergeant off to make sure the typewritten report was ready, and was alone at his desk when a telephone bell rang.
“West speaking.”
“It’s Mr. Baker, of Whitechapel, sir.”
“Put him through.” Roger frowned at the map of Whitechapel but saw a mental picture of young Owen. It was several seconds before Baker came on the line.
“Roger?”
“ ‘Morning, Charlie. What’s new?”
“Got a funny thing to report,” said the Whitechapel superintendent promptly. “In the first place, Owen spent the night at Mrs. E’s place.”
Roger said: “Oh, did he!” and the familiar feeling of disquiet seemed to be deeper.
“And he’s been on the phone—wants to see you,” went on
Baker. “He won’t talk to anyone else. He says he’s got an extra hour off at lunchtime, so he could meet you anywhere. He suggests a hotel, perhaps the Strand Palace, to make sure that he isn’t seen talking to you.”
“I wouldn’t mind a square meal myself,” Roger said. “I’ll book a table in the grill room there, in a corner, if you’ll tell Owen to meet me at about a quarter to one. Okay?”
“Seems all right,” said Baker. “Wish I knew what he was up to.”
Owen entered the grill room a few minutes early, and Roger saw him speaking to the head waiter, who turned and pointed. Owen threaded his way between the tables. He was serious-faced, as if there was plenty on his mind, and looked very young, almost sulky. He was wearing a green tweed suit which made him seem very bulky. When he reached the table he hesitated.
“Sit down,” said Roger.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re all right here,” Roger said. “I’ve fixed it so that no one will be near enough to hear what we say if we keep our voices down. What will you have to drink?”
“I’m not particularly anxious to—”
“I’m going to have a lager. Suit you?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And I’ve ordered some tomato soup, and a mixed grill,” Roger went on.
Owen moistened his lips. “That sounds fine, sir, but I didn’t intend that you should—er—buy me a meal. I just wanted to talk in confidence, and—well, it’s a very deli—very difficult subject, Mr. West.”
“I don’t mind how difficult or delicate it is, provided I get the truth,” Roger said. “Have you made any progress?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t think Ruth Endicott knows anything more than she told you, except one thing,” declared Owen. “Just after her husband’s murder and before you went to see her, she had a visit from a stranger, who . . .”
Roger listened to the story which Ruth had told Owen last night.
Owen looked almost dazed, although he spoke vividly and simply as he went on: “In my opinion, there isn’t any doubt that she was too frightened to tell you about this, sir, and I don’t think there’s any doubt that she’s alive because she convinced this man that she didn’t know anything about Endicott’s business. I believe she’s absolutely in the clear, sir.”
“Then you’ve done a good job,” Roger said.
“Have I?” asked Owen. He looked down at his empty soup plate, and was about to speak when the waiter glided to the table with the grill on a silver plated dish, while another man whipped away the soup plates. The helping of steak, kidney, liver, bacon, sausage, and lamb cutlet was huge; the pile of chips, here called French fried, reminded Owen vividly of the fish and chips last night.
“It sounds a good job,” Roger declared. “We know the kind of man to look for, and if we ever find him, Mrs. Endicott can be used to identify him.”
“I suppose so,” Owen said, and waited until the waiter had gone. Then he looked Roger squarely in the eye. “The truth is, sir, I feel all kinds of a swine. You see, last night I—well, I spent the night with Mrs. E. I won’t beat about the bush, but I’m telling you this in absolute confidence, sir—you needn’t report it to anyone else, need you?”
“No. I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, I won’t beat about the bush. Ruth— Mrs. E.—fell for me soon after we met, and it was she who stepped up the pace. If it had been just an ordinary affaire I wouldn’t have had any complaints, but—well, I suppose the truth is that she’s been damned lonely—affection starved, in a kind of way. She—she had a rough time with her husband, and—well, anyhow, whatever the cause, she set the pace. I had to go along with her, or risk upsetting her so much that I couldn’t hope to find out what I was after. It was fifty-fifty in a way, though—I’m not going to try to tell you that I exactly—er—hated it. But this morning I feel all kinds of a swine. Sooner or later she’ll have to learn that I’m a copper.”
Roger said slowly, heavily: “I can see your problem.” He started to eat, and was intrigued when Owen sliced a sausage in half, and put a half into his mouth. There was cause for satisfaction that Owen had volunteered this story; on the other hand, there was the official problem as well as Owen’s. He could imagine how this story could be exaggerated if it ever reached the Press; for instance, how it could be made to look as if Owen had deliberately seduced Ruth Endicott in the course of his duty.
He could imagine what Hardy would say. He could see photographs like those in the weekly magazine, the voluptuous widow and the unscrupulous police. It was useless to think that the story could never leak out. It need not; but if this Endicott woman was spiteful—which was possible, if she had fooled Owen, as she probably had—she might have plenty to say when she discovered that he was a detective.
“You’d better come off the job right away,” Roger said. “At the first opportunity, when the danger for Mrs. Endicott is over, try to make some kind of explanation.” As he spoke, Roger felt that it was an unsatisfying response to a kind of S.O.S. call, and obviously it did not greatly help Owen.
“I know that’s one way to handle it,” said Owen, “but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“Safe?”
“For Ruth,” Owen said.
Roger looked at him steadily, wondering what was really in his mind. Owen gave him time to think by eating a piece of now cold liver, and went on:
“We know what kind of people we’re up against, Mr. West, don’t we? And they’re thorough, too. We can be darned sure that they’re still watching Ruth—in fact I think I know who they’re using. If I suddenly disappear from the shop and from the district, they’re likely to assume that I was just there for a job; I think they’d take it for granted it was a police job. I’d hate to think what they would do to Ruth, if they once thought that. They’d certainly work on her to find out what she’d told me.”
Roger said, in a taut voice: “Yes, you’re quite right.” He hadn’t seen it that way, and for a few moments he was shaken; but slowly the one really satisfactory aspect forced itself forward. Owen was proving very good. He could look at a problem and turn it inside out; despite the emotional factors, he missed nothing.
“So what the hell am I to do?” Owen demanded.
Roger pushed his plate away. “Give me time to think about it,” he said, and waved the waiter away. Owen was still eating. “What’s this about the man who is watching her?”
“He’s another newcomer to the district,” declared Owen. “He’s just bought a shop near Brasher’s Row. It used to be owned by an old couple, who got past it. He bought it a couple of weeks ago, did it up a bit, and now he’s canvassing for trade. He’s making special price offers, and going all out to build up the business—and he’s particularly interested in Ruth E.”
“Sure?”
“He calls on her for orders every day, and doesn’t do that with anyone else,” said Owen. “She’s quite amused by it in one way, a bit nervous in another. She doesn’t like him, particularly. Every time she goes into the shop—it’s where she gets most of her oddments, being very handy—he’s all over her. Asked her to have a drink wi
th him two or three times already. Damned funny thing,” went on Owen, in that semi-cultured voice of his, “that she should fall for me, and react against him. I’ve seen the chap. He’s a bit older than I am, I’d say, got a beard, quite good-looking in a way. Of course she feels that he’s watching her for this other man, and it’s scared her. As a matter of fact, Mr. West, I did wonder whether it would be a good idea if we persuaded Ruth E. to get out of the district until it’s over. I mean, if I were to tell her the truth— or if you were to, and advise her to take a holiday, I think she’d jump at it, she’s so scared.”
Roger thought: “If I talk to her!” but he showed no reaction, and considered the idea on its face value; it proved again that Owen could use his mind, and it was probably as easy a way out of the immediate difficulty as they could find. In fact it was almost too easy.
“If this chap’s bought the shop fairly recently, it wasn’t to watch Mrs. E.,” he pointed out. “She could be watched without that. But if he’s particularly interested—here!” His voice rose. “What’s this chap like? What kind of build? How old do you say?” He rapped the questions out in quick succession. At first Owen was startled, but he answered each one to the point.
“He’s around thirty-five, I’d say. Five feet ten or eleven. Fairly broad-shouldered, grey eyes, fairish hair. Has a beard, and it curls slightly. Ruth says that he’s not new to his job. He knows groceries all right—my God!” It was Owen’s turn to break off, and stare. “Are you wondering if this is the missing grocer, Stone?”
“Yes.”
“Well I’m damned!” exclaimed Owen. “Wouldn’t have given it a thought, but now you’ve pointed it out, he could be Stone. I’d soon see, if I saw Stone’s photograph with a beard pencilled on.”
In the middle of that afternoon, a man called at the Walsh’s shop ostensibly to get a bicycle puncture mended, and showed Owen alias Orde a photograph of Stone, plus a beard. Owen simply said: “That’s the shopkeeper who calls himself Simpson, no doubt about it.”