by John Creasey
“He—he doesn’t know anything!” she gasped. “He’s just a friend, that’s all, he’s just a friend.” She hardly knew what she was saying, she was so desperate to make sure that this man did not do anything to hurt Cyril. “He—he works at a cycle shop in Whitechapel Road, at Walsh’s. He—he’s just a friend.”
“So that’s how you entertain your friends,” the man answered. “Butcher, baker, cycle-maker, and we mustn’t forget the grocer, must we? What about that bearded boy friend, Ruthie?” The man leaned forward and put out his right hand, and although she tried to get out of his reach, she could not. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and pushed her head back, so that she had to look into his eyes. “I didn’t think you had it in you. One lover-boy here all night, and another here by twelve o’clock next morning. Poor old Lionel would turn over in his grave.”
“It’s not—it’s not true,” she gasped; the pressure at her chin made it difficult to get the words out. “He—he—he just came to sell me some groceries.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ruthie,” warned the man in front of her.
“He’s called here most days, and you’ve been in the shop a couple of times. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, yes, but—”
“And he’s not come to bring you a pound of sugar or a quarter of tea,” sneered the plump man. “What’s he been here for, if it wasn’t to lay you?”
She was gasping for breath, but did not try to answer.
“Listen, Ruthie,” went on the plump man, “are you setting up house for any man with money in his pocket? Are you turning this into a whore-shop?”
“No!” she managed to scream, and wriggled herself free and jumped up. “Get out of my house!” She struck at him as he tried to grab her again, and by chance pushed him heavily to one side. He slipped off the table, and couldn’t save himself. He was between her and the door, and she had to get out; she was terrified, she had to have help. She could think of nothing but getting to the door, but if she tried to jump over him he would stop her. She saw him, wedged between the table legs and the wall, scrambling to get up; he was in an awkward position, which gave her a few precious moments of grace. She ran round the other side of the table as the man got to his feet, and he was still out of reach. She pulled open the door—and ran into another man standing there.
He was grinning.
She recoiled, too shocked for words. He blocked the doorway: a man whom she had never seen before, short, squat, swarthy. Her hands were raised to fend him off, and for that split second thought of the plump man was driven from her mind.
She felt hands brush the back of her head again, and remembered the way in which she had nearly been strangled. She tried to twist round, but the man behind her did not try to strangle her this time. Instead, he buried his fingers in her hair, and began to pull, slowly, powerfully, until the hair was straining away from the scalp; a different kind of pain and a different kind of fear took possession of her. She felt him pulling savagely. She knew that he was forcing her head back, too—so that her throat was arched. She saw the man in the passage grinning; and she saw him put his right hand to his waistband. It wasn’t until he drew his hand out that she realised what he held.
The blade of a knife stabbed out.
“No!” Ruth screeched.
“Ready for her, Fats?” the man with the knife asked. He ran his thumb along the blade, as if testing the sharpness, and he grinned so that she could see all his teeth. “How about doing it in one, eh?”
“Oh, God, no, don’t kill me, don’t kill me!”
“Never have done it in one yet,” the man with the knife said. “I’m ready to try.” He raised the knife, holding it sideways, as if he were going to slash.
“Put that away,” said the fat man behind her. “She’s coming on a little journey with us.” He let her go, but held her by the shoulders, or she would have collapsed, sobbing. “Hear that, Ruthie? You’re coming with us, and when we get you to a nice quiet place you’re going to tell us all about your lover boys, and what they’ve wanted to know, and what you’ve told them.”
She only just heard what he said.
“For instance,” said the plump man, “have you told them about the shells?”
She thought vaguely: “Shells?” She didn’t know what he meant, hardly remembered that her husband had often carried sea shells in his pocket, as if he collected them.
“You got them from the cupboard?” asked the man with the knife. He hadn’t put his weapon away yet, and his expression seemed to say that he was reluctant to.
“I’ve got ‘em,” the plump man said. “The car outside?”
“Yeh.”
“Go get the engine started,” ordered the plump man, and as the man pressed the knife handle and the venomous looking blade snapped back into it, Fats took a hold on Ruth’s arm, just above the elbow, and gripped her very tightly. It hurt, but its worst effect was to warn her how much pain he could cause if he intended to. “Ruthie,” he said, “you’ve got to tell us everything. Every damned thing. If you don’t—”
He broke off.
After a pause, the sound of an engine starting up came clearly.
“Now you just walk with me to the car and get inside, and you don’t make any fuss,” the plump man said. “If you make any fuss, you won’t ever see the light of day again.”
As she stepped across the narrow pavement to the car, Ruth looked desperately right and left, but no one was in sight. It was about two o’clock, a quiet hour. If she could have seen Cy, just caught a glimpse of him, nothing would have kept her from crying out; but the street was empty, almost picturesque in the warm summer sunlight and against the clear blue sky
She got into the car.
The plump man climbed in beside her, held her wrist, and said:
“Okay, George.”
The car slid along Brasher’s Row, and turned two corners, including the one where Simpson’s van stood outside. Ruth thought she saw the man’s fair head through the shop window, but he didn’t look up, and if he had she probably would not have tried to attract his attention.
The plump man was saying: “Just do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.” After a pause, she felt him fumbling in his pocket, and then she saw him take out a pair of dark-lensed glasses. “Put these on,” he said. “Then you won’t be able to see where you’re going, will you?”
She put them on unsteadily, and darkness descended on her. She could just make out the outlines of the street, the people, the shops and the houses. Once they were on the main road, the car put on speed.
She did not know how long they were driving, but it must have been over half an hour, often through thick traffic. Then she realised that they were driving through a different kind of district; there were big houses, a few fields, fewer people. She heard the dear, sweet singing of birds, and the leisurely clatter of a lawn mower. Then the car swayed to one side, and she was thrust against the plump man, who gave her a squeeze, and laughed as if he felt on top of the world.
“Now we’re there,” he said. “You can take off your glasses.”
The house was double-fronted, with beautiful bow windows on either side, and rose beds out into fresh close-cut lawns: roses of pink and yellow and white, of red and mauve and scarlet.
The man who stood in the doorway was middle-aged. He had a most distinguished appearance; although the bright sunlight hurt Ruth’s eyes after the period of darkness, she could not fail to notice that.
Fats, still holding her arm, said: “We got her.”
“So you got her,” said the distinguished-looking man. He stood in the doorway, without smiling, staring at her as if at an exhibit. “I see,” he said at last. “Put her in the morning room. I want a word with you.”
“Okay,” said the plump man.
The house had high ceilings. The big staircase was panelled. There were big oil portraits on the walls. The floor was of dark wood, with some skin rugs on it, including a tiger ski
n almost real enough to be frightening.
Ruth was just aware of these things as the plump man named Fats led her to a door which stood ajar. He pushed open the door and thrust her into a small, sunlit room, with big windows overlooking a beautiful green lawn and a wide border of flowers. It was so beautiful, so restful and so peaceful, that the sight of it momentarily eased her terror.
Ruth heard the clear chiming of a clock, a pure note which seemed to come from nearby. It struck three. There was no clock in here. While she was looking round, she heard the man speak in a quiet, clear voice, although some distance away. She could hear what was being said in the next room.
Her heart began to beat faster. She stared towards the sound and saw another door open an inch; the men in the other room probably didn’t know that. She went closer. The beauty of the garden, the sight of the flitting birds, the quiet
voices and the fact that she could hear what was being said, all worked together to give her hope.
A man was saying coldly: “We should have found this out before. Shell won’t like it. Simpson isn’t Simpson at all. He’s Stone, the husband of the woman Endicott killed. A newspaperman recognised him, there’s a story in the Globetoday.”
Ruth caught her breath.
“I told you there was something fishy about him, didn’t I?” asked Fats, but it did not dawn on Ruth that he was on the defensive, nervous of the other man. “I thought maybe he was a cop.”
“You should have found out,” said the man. “Have you any more information about the man in the cycle shop, what’s his name?”
Ruth wanted to scream: “No!”
“No,” said Fats, almost sullenly. Fearfully?
“Then it’s time you found out,” said the distinguished-looking man, coldly. “Do you think he’s a detective?”
Ruth thought: “No, no, he can’t be!”
“He doesn’t look the type,” answered Fats, “but he might be.”
“He took the job only two weeks ago, and these Walsh people know nothing about him, do they?”
“They said they didn’t.”
“So he arrived out of nowhere,” said the man. “Don’t waste any more time finding out whether he’s a policeman or not. Quite obviously he is. How do you think Shell will like this?”
Ruth was leaning against the arm of a big chair; she felt as if she was going to faint.
Fats said: “I did all I could, I tell you. I used Endicott to get rid of the Stone woman, and put Endicott and Gantry away because they could have named Shell. What more does she want?”
The man said smoothly:
“She told you to get rid of Endicott’s widow.”
“But it was throwing money away!”
“It was disobeying orders,” the man said, “but it might be an advantage to have her alive. Do you think this Endicott woman knows who Orde is?”
“I’ll soon find out,” said Fats. There was a vicious note in his voice, a note which Ruth recognised only too well. With her, he was the big shot, and all-powerful; with the man here he was only a servant, and both men seemed dominated by this unknown Shell. “If Orde’s a cop, and Ruthie knows it, she’ll talk all right.”
“It shouldn’t be difficult to make her,” said the other. “Use the old air raid shelter. If she kicks up a row she can’t be heard from there.”
“Want me to start work now?”
“Why don’t you tell her what you want, and give her an hour to think it over?” the man suggested. “It’s always better to get information without using strong-arm methods. But I don’t care what you have to do to make her talk, so long as you find out everything she knows about this Orde, if she’s been working with the police, and if she’s told Simpson-or-Stone anything. Get the lot, if you’re to justify yourself with Shell.”
“I’ll get it, don’t you worry,” Fats promised. It was as if he was turning the screw on to a wound already agonising, causing pain where greater pain seemed impossible. So much was being thrown at Ruth; the suspicion of Cy, the truth about Simpson, the fact that these men suspected that she was working with the police, the fact that Fats was obviously prepared to torture her to make her tell the truth.
Would, he believe her when she did tell it?
She heard footsteps.
“And Fats—” said the distinguished-looking man.
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do with her afterwards?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Fats said. “I’ll forget her dough.”
“You will have to be extremely careful.”
Fats gave a short, high-pitched laugh.
“I’ve already dug a deep hole,” he said.
The other man made no comment. There were more footsteps, and then a door opened and closed. The footsteps faded.
Ruth leaned against the arm of the chair, staring at the partly open door, knowing that the passage door would open at any moment, knowing that there was nothing she could do to save herself from the man named Fats.
But—
The distinguished-looking man who could talk so coldbloodedly about hiding her body, did not know that this second door was open.
XIX
AMENDS
ALTHOUGH no one had harassed her about it, Detective Sergeant Bella Dawson of the C.I.D. felt very badly indeed about her failure to keep track of Jim Stone. It had seemed such an easy assignment, and she was acutely aware that her own carelessness had been partly responsible for what had happened. Consequently, she spent much of her off-duty hours trying to find out where Stone was. Obviously Brasher’s Row and Mrs. Endicott’s little house were possibilities, and she spent some time near Brasher’s Row, explaining her presence to local shop-keepers and the landlords of two public-houses as she had explained it to Stone.
She was a journalist, looking for sob stories.
Although she caught sight of the man Simpson several times, at the wheel of his van or inside his shop, it was not for some days that she learned he had only just bought the business. That made her very curious, and she was anxious to get a good look at the man, but three days after she had first visited Brasher’s Row she was sent to an urgent job in Wimbledon. There, two young girls had been assaulted, and women police were particularly required. She did not tell Chief Inspector Ethel Winstanley about her suspicions of Simpson; she meant to be absolutely sure of her ground before she told anyone. A second mistake would be hard to live down.
The first chance she had of going back was the second morning after Owen alias Orde had spent the night with Ruth Endicott. Bella Dawson knew nothing of that, of course, and her main interest was in the grocer from the corner shop. She did not want him to see and recognise her, so she sat behind the windshield of a motor-scooter, wearing a pale blue crash helmet and a pair of dark-lensed goggles, as well as a pair of tight jeans. Girl scooterists like her were two a penny all over London. She watched when the grocer took his van out, followed him, and saw when he pulled up outside Number 37.
She watched him get down from the van, and that was the moment when she felt jubilant. Something about the way he moved gave him away; she was quite sure that it was Stone.
What was he doing with Endicott’s widow?
Bella Dawson waited until the man had gone inside, and then drove round the block so that she could see the house from the other side and a different corner; she was less likely to be noticed that way. The van was still there when she stopped again. She pushed her crash helmet back and dabbed her forehead, for it was very warm, and she wondered how shiny her snub nose was. In fact, she looked oddly attractive as she sat astride the machine, studying a book as if planning a list of houses on which to call.
She saw a car turn into the road. A plumpish man got out, and strolled along on the side opposite Ruth Endicott’s. At first she took little notice of this individual; it was no longer remarkable that people who lived in this kind of slum district owned cars. A man was left at the wheel of the car, and she began to wonder what they we
re doing. Then she noticed that the plump man kept looking towards the grocer’s van; he walked up and down with the van as the centre of his peregrinations.
By now, Bella was very alert indeed.
She wrote quickly in the loose-leaf book she was using, tore the page out, folded it, and tucked it into the top of her belt. Simpson-Stone was still in the little house, and she began to wonder why; was Endicott’s widow going on the loose? Bella wasn’t very interested about the other woman’s morals, but felt sure that she was on to something; the presence of the plump man and the car made her feel even more sure. She started the engine of the scooter, and drove along Brasher’s Row and past the van, past the plump man, who took no notice of her, and the driver of the blue Austin. The driver whistled as she went by, and she tossed her head. She turned the corner, slowed down, waited until a lorry came from the docks so that she could switch off her engine without the silence being noticeable, and parked at the side of the road, just round by the shop. Book in hand, she went to the corner.
As she reached it, Simpson-Stone came out of Mrs. Endicott’s house.
One thing was certain at the first glance; the man wasn’t very happy. Bella was some distance away, but had seldom seen a man look more dejected. She heard the door slam, and Simpson-Stone paused for a few seconds by the side of his van, looking more dejected than ever. As if with a physical effort, he climbed back into his van, and started off. As soon as he had gone, the plump man raised a hand, obviously in signal to the driver of the car.
Was Simpson to be followed?
The driver started his engine, and drove slowly towards 37, Brasher’s Row. For a few moments, Bella Dawson thought that the men were going inside, but the plump man went to the car and got in, and the car moved off.
This was bewildering; they hadn’t followed the grocer and weren’t going into the little house. Why were they so interested? A tinge of disappointment took the edge off the detective sergeant’s excitement, but she could use a little time. She started the engine, scooted along to the Whitechapel Road, and saw a policeman standing on a corner looking with resigned interest at a massive traffic block. Huge diesel lorries, engines still clanking, waspish little cars, enormous buses growling and crawling. The air was blue with fumes which hazed the rooftops, the stench was sickening and the hot sun made it all intolerable.