A Backwards Jump

by John Creasey

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Sparrow would be grateful if you’ll go straight up, sir. Flat 69.”

  “Thanks.”

  The elevator was as small as it could be, self-operated, and with room only for four people. It crawled upwards. An advertisement announcing furnished and service flats for rent made a special point of the claim that the flats were all soundproofed.

  A policeman was outside the open door of Number 69, and another was just inside. Several men were moving about in the two rooms beyond. These were small, too, and Gideon wondered how high the rent was. Then he saw Dick Sparrow, a man who looked rather like a bulldog, even to his snub nose and puckered lips. He was young for a Divisional Superintendent, in the middle forties, and was known to be one of the best raconteurs in the Force.

  He came hurrying out of a small room on the right.

  “Hallo, George, thanks for coming.” He deliberately stopped Gideon from going right in, and drew him out into the passage. “I just thought I’d like to know what you thought when you’d had a dekko at the place yourself. The husband says that he went to bed at the same time as his wife, and when he woke up, she was missing. He thought she was in the bathroom, dozed off again, and didn’t discover until about half-past eight that the bedroom window was wide open. Says he looked out and saw her down there. But there’s a queer thing.”

  “What?”

  “Her footprints,” Sparrow said. “Look.”

  There had been time for photographs. A Sergeant from the photography department was standing by, with several damp prints in a blotting-paper folder, while the foot-prints on the floor beneath the bedroom window and on a three-inch ledge at the window itself, were marked off in chalk and protected by a little bridge of plywood, to make sure that they could not be smeared. Knowing that Sparrow was hoping he had spotted something which his superior would miss, Gideon seemed to take a long time coming to a decision, although he believed that he had noticed that “something” very quickly. Sparrow and the photographer were looking at him almost eagerly. A man from Fingerprints came into the room, saw the trio, stopped and almost held his breath.

  “She climbed out backwards,” Gideon said, keeping a straight face.

  Sparrow’s expression was almost comical. The photographer threw up his hands.

  “I told you so,” said the Fingerprints man.

  “She walked to the window backwards, too,” went on Gideon.

  “That’s right,” said Sparrow, “and if you’re going to throw yourself out of the window, would you walk backwards? How about the prints in the kitchen?” he asked the man from Fingerprints.

  “Can’t be sure, she wasn’t bare-footed in there,” he was answered, “but I did pick up something.”

  “What?”

  “The backs of a pair of shoes were scraped against the wall beneath the window in the kitchen,” said the other. “It’s a bit damp, and slightly powdery. I’d say she had been standing with her back to that window quite a lot.”

  “Think someone scared her into backing to the window and jumping out, do you?” Gideon said. “It’s going to be a hell of a thing to establish.” His voice was soft. “Sent the body away?”

  “Yes,” Sparrow answered. “Fractured skull and broken neck, death was instantaneous. No signs of bruises except where she fell. Clinton’s doing the P.M. but Jameson and I had a good look at her, and the only visible injuries were from that fall. Of course if we could find anything in the stomach—”

  “Where’s the husband?”

  “Downstairs with a neighbour.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’d like us to believe he’s hardly capable of making a statement.” Sparrow raised a finger, and a plainclothes man who had been in the doorway came hurrying. “Let’s hear Dennis’s statement, Jim, will you?”

  The shorthand note-taker did not even have to turn over the pages, he was so well prepared. The statement was brief and coherent; in fact a model, almost the kind of statement that a man advised by counsel would make. Dennis had woken up, noticed that his wife was missing from her bed, thought she had gone to the bathroom, woken again half an hour later, about half-past eight but he wasn’t sure of the time, had noticed the open window, looked out, and seen her. He rushed down to make sure it was his wife, telephoned for a doctor, then gone downstairs. The doctor had arrived within ten minutes.

  “How’d he tell you all this?” Gideon asked.

  “In bits and pieces,” Sparrow said. “When I read it over I noticed that it was pretty smooth.”

  “Neighbours?”

  “After he’d phoned the doctor, he told the people in a third-floor flat – the people he’s with now – that she’d been queer since he married her, but he hadn’t noticed it before. Says she had a kind of fear of crowds and people, and wouldn’t go out. That squares with other statements I’ve had taken, George – he often went out, but she seldom did, especially this past few days. He did the shopping, too, grocery store, butcher’s and all that kind of thing. Funny kind of start to married life.”

  “What’s his job?”

  “Radio salesman, but he says he came up on the pools last year, and has all he needs to live on for a while.”

  “Tell you what,” said Gideon, “I’ll give him the once over, but won’t say much to him. If I play the strong silent copper, it won’t help his nerves if he’s got anything on his conscience. Then you keep plugging away with questions about his wife’s behaviour, and did she see a doctor, did anyone else notice she was odd? Press him hard, but don’t even whisper that she climbed out backwards. Have all the neighbours questioned, find out more about his background and the wife’s, see if there’s a history of mental instability. Call me or Lemaitre if you want extra help. Get everything done quick, so that he can’t get his second wind.”

  Sparrow and the others were smiling, as if with a kind of relief.

  “Fine,” said Sparrow. “Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later, Gideon saw Reginald Dennis, widower of the dead Eve. Dennis was one of the neutrals, and Gideon felt no emotional reaction. He was pleasant-looking, dressed quite well, spoke with a slightly exaggerated “Oxford” accent, the type likely to impress a girl who did not know a great deal about men. He was still agitated, but his eyes had a kind of calmness, and Gideon could well understand why Sparrow had begun to wonder exactly what he knew.

  Gideon was hard-voiced and forbidding.

  “Most regrettable circumstances, Mr. Dennis. Be good enough to give Superintendent Sparrow all possible information. Important that all the causes of the tragedy should be found out quickly. Very quickly.” He nodded curtly and turned away, with a suspicion that Dennis’s eyes were not quite so calm when he finished as they had been when he had begun.

  He could leave this to Sparrow quite safely now, all Sparrow had wanted was permission to go ahead. The fingerprint man and photographer were good, the fingerprint man especially; noticing those marks beneath the kitchen window and those on the shoes was first class. A man to watch. Gideon made a mental note of them both as he went down in the slow lift, which seemed even smaller than when he had come up. He wasn’t surprised that three newspapermen were outside, had a word with them, assured them blandly that he was just doing his rounds, as usual, the case had all the hallmarks of a suicide, and went almost as blandly to his car. He flicked on the radio when he was round the corner, called Lemaitre, and asked: “Anything fresh in, Lem?”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll be around the West End if I’m wanted.”

  “Okay,” said Lemaitre.

  Gideon drove to Whitehall, left his car where the general public could not park, and then began to walk round London’s Square Mile. Here, near Piccadilly, in Soho, and around Leicester Square, was the beat he’d trodden as a flattie, the manor he’d worked in
as a Chief Inspector, the part of London which seemed closer to him than any other. His battles with Frisky Lee had been centred about here, for Frisky had once owned several second-hand jewellers’ shops, where stolen goods had been on sale. Two managers had been trapped and one was still in jail; but neither had implicated Frisky.

  No one ever did, because he frightened them into silence.

  Gideon felt quite sure of that, and it was the real reason for his hatred of the man. As he walked the familiar hard pavements, he came to a sudden decision. Things were fairly slack at the Yard, and he could use a few days away, to think clearly and refresh his mind.

  “I’ll take a few days off with Kate,” he decided, and then saw a policeman whose face was familiar. It was William Smith, who had been in Hyde Park on Sunday, and had spoken to the woman who had struck the child. The man was walking his week-day beat, in Regent Street, and raised his hand in salute.

  Gideon stopped.

  “Hallo, Smith. Did you check with the other chaps about that woman and the boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any results?”

  “Two of them have seen her give the child a hefty slap for no reason at all, but that’s as far as I’ve been able to get, sir,” said Smith. “She’s only in the park on Sundays. No one’s seen her or the boy acting suspiciously. One of the fellows saw her dragging the boy along Oxford Street pretty roughly, though.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, but if you see her again, point her out to one of our plainclothes chaps, and ask him to find out where she lives and anything else he can about her. He can let me know.”

  “Very good, sir.” Smith was obviously gratified.

  “Right,” said Gideon. “’Morning.” He went on, walking more briskly, reached his car and drove straight to the Yard. He noticed that Warr’s car was there, and Warr seldom came back from a job during the day unless he had something heavy on his mind, or had finished a job. Had he charged old Henderson’s housekeeper? That wouldn’t be surprising.

  Lemaitre was alone in the office, looking greasy and hot, his collar undone and tie hanging down, a burn-blackened cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He was glancing through a newspaper; Gideon suspected that it had been at the back page and the racing reports until he heard footsteps.

  “How’d it go?” asked Lemaitre.

  “Sparrow’s got a notion that the girl might have been pushed. If he wants any special help, see he gets it quick,” said Gideon. “Anything else in?”

  “Warr’s back, looking as if someone’s stolen the Sunday School Treat fund,” Lemaitre said. “I said I’d tell him the moment you got in. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Gideon.

  6

  NEED FOR PATIENCE

  Obviously Warr had a lot on his mind. He came in more quickly than usual, and without opening the door and leaving it ajar as if eavesdropping. Although his clerical grey suit was thick, and made him look plumper than he was, he did not seem to be too hot. There was an unusual air of briskness about him, and his smile was quite bright, too.

  “Sit down, Syd,” Gideon greeted. “Sorry I kept you.”

  “Hardly had time to get all my notes finished,” Warr said. “George, I think I was wrong about Mrs. Martha Smallwood.”

  “Think she killed Henderson ?”

  “It certainly wouldn’t surprise me,” Warr said. “I think you’re going to hate my guts before I’ve finished.”

  “Try me.”

  “I want three if not four exhumations.”

  Lemaitre, at his desk and now studying reports, started to exclaim, then choked the sound back; neither of the others turned round. Gideon’s expression was almost solemn.

  “Let’s have the rest, Syd.”

  “I spent an hour this morning looking through some of the old files of elderly gents who died mysteriously, and there was a Globe picture of a man up in Scarborough who died suddenly from gastro-enteritis, according to the doctor’s certificate,” Warr said. “Scarborough sent it down for our opinion. Well, the old gent had a housekeeper. Her picture was there, too. She was Martha Smallwood, Henderson’s housekeeper. So the first thing I did this morning was to check with her friends where she’d worked before. She hadn’t told all of ‘em, but there’s no doubt she’s been in Bournemouth, Eastbourne and Weymouth during the past four years. Remember these jobs?” He took a folded envelope from his pocket, extracted a sheet of paper and handed this to Gideon. “Not exactly identical, but with some common features, George. The Bournemouth man died in a fire – the way Henderson was supposed to have died. The Weymouth man was hale and hearty. Died in his bath, though; heart attack, and he slumped down and was drowned. The Eastbourne man fell down the stairs and broke his neck. I’ve telephoned to all three places, and the housekeeper in each case answer’s Martha Smallwood’s description.”

  Now that he had played his cards, Warr sat back with a satisfied, almost smug smile.

  “Think I’ll get those exhumation orders, George?”

  “Nice work,” Gideon said, “although I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. It means getting the Old Man to contact all the Chief Constables, and we’ll strangle ourselves in red tape if we’re not careful. Now you’ve started it, how would you like to see it all through?”

  “Starting where?” asked Warr.

  “Go and tell the Old Man about it all, lay everything on the table, suggest that we ought to keep it very quiet for a few days, if we can, and that I advise you to go down to Bournemouth, Eastbourne and Weymouth, and have a talk with the people on the spot. It’ll take a week. We can have Mrs. Smallwood watched, although once Henderson’s buried she won’t think that she’s got anything to worry about. How does it sound?”

  “George,” said Warr, taking a deep breath, “I always knew you were the best man for your job. Give me an hour, and I’ll ask the Old Man to see me. And thanks a lot.”

  He went out, closing the door very softly, as if anxious to overhear anything that was said as he disappeared. Lemaitre waited until the door was firmly closed, then grinned across and said: “You get ‘em all eating out of your hand, I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Warr hasn’t had a break for a long time, and he’s earned this one,” Gideon said. “It’ll give the Press a holiday and we’ll be up to our necks. Think you could keep your end up here if I took two or three days off?”

  “Damn sure I could,” said Lemaitre. “Glad to know you’ve got some sense, a few days’ holiday before you’re run off your feet is just what you need. Good time for it, too. Take a tip from me, George.”

  Gideon smiled.

  “Always ready for advice.”

  “Go away from London,” Lemaitre said. “Take Kate away with you. Let the kids look after themselves for a day or two, it won’t do them any harm.”

  “Something in that,” agreed Gideon.

  “There’s a lot in it,” Lemaitre said, “and you couldn’t have chosen a better time for me, George. I had a call from my solicitor while you were out. The decree absolute’s okay, she’s free to marry the so-and-so, and I’m as free as the air. In case you haven’t noticed it, I’ve been a bit on edge this last few days, and I wouldn’t mind sticking my nose into more work than usual. I’m all right, though. I’m cured. And when you’re back, I’ll take a few days off among the Brighton breezes. It’ll be like turning back twenty years. Like to hear my wolf whistle?”

  Gideon chuckled, and said: “The look in your eyes is enough.”

  It took Kate five minutes to make up her mind.

  “It’ll be wonderful!” she said.

  Gideon had an almost guilty feeling when he left the Yard in the middle of the afternoon. He’d spent an hour with Lemaitre, going over everything pending; had talked to the Assistant Com
missioner for Crime about outstanding cases of importance, and particularly about Warr and his discovery; Warr had been given carte blanche, and the local police had been asked to give him all the assistance he needed. His greatest worries were the missing Crows, father and daughter, and the young wife who had crashed to her death at Chilton Court, walking backwards to the window, then “falling” out. Before leaving the Yard, he had talked to the chief pathologist, Dr. Clinton, and been assured that all the injuries had been caused by the fall, that there was no poison, nothing in the body to suggest that Mrs. Dennis had died from any cause but the fall. Sparrow was digging very deep, and it was already known that the girl died worth about seven thousand pounds, inherited from her mother three years ago. She had known Dennis three months before getting married.

  Sparrow wasn’t going to find it easy to build up a case against the husband.

  Gideon was uneasy, too, about the missing father and daughter, the Crows. No word had come from the New Forest, and such a complete disappearance was unusual. But Brighton made it easy to forget.

  “George,” Kate said, on the second afternoon, “I’m not going to bathe alone. You come in.”

  “We don’t want a tidal wave,” Gideon objected placidly.

  “The truth is, you’ve forgotten how to swim.”

  “Oh, have I?” said Gideon, because she was so obviously anxious for him to bathe. So he went across to the hotel, changed, and joined her again on the beach. The sting of the water made him regret it at first, but he was soon kicking out and fooling.

  He bought an evening paper at the porter’s desk, while Kate ordered tea on the bedroom balcony; that way, they needn’t change until dinner. He sat glancing through the paper, the sun hot on the matt of greying hair on his chest, and then suddenly stiffened.

  “Now what have you seen?” Kate demanded, taking off her cap and shaking her hair loose. “I refuse to let you cut this holiday short.”