A Backwards Jump

by John Creasey

There was a group of silent Indians, the men in Western dress, the women in saris of beautiful colours. There was a family of four, middle-aged parents, two well-dressed public school or preparatory school types, quiet-voiced but marvelling, their eyes radiant.

  Over the heads of the crowd, Gideon saw Hemmingway, an elderly man, running to fat, flabby of face and pale. Hemmingway was within a few months of retiring age, and something about the look of him suggested that he should have retired before, even on a lower pension. The NE Division took a lot out of a man.

  Then Gideon saw the child of Hyde Park. There was no mistaking the pale, peaky face, the rounded eyes which were too shiny and bright, the dirty clothes, the wary look. Last Sunday in the crowd round the soap-box orators of Marble Arch, this Sunday among the crowd in Petticoat Lane. There was no doubt now, he’d come to steal. His mother wasn’t in sight, and before Gideon could get near, the child was lost among a forest of trousered legs and short skirts and pale gossamer called nylon.

  Hemmingway looked up, and saw Gideon. He beckoned, with his head. A ring of police, a dozen strong, kept back the crowd, which surged forward to get a closer look when Gideon was allowed through. Beyond them were the cries of the market, the pleading of the auctioneers, the bustle, the munching, the lounging, the sightseeing. And here were three Detectives from the Division, including Hemmingway, the ring of police, and a man lying on the ground, still as death, with another man bending over him.

  Gideon recognised a Divisional Police Surgeon, Dobson. Dobson straightened up, and said to Hemmingway: “He’s dead all right, better get an ambulance.”

  “Any outward sign of the cause?”

  “No.”

  Hemmingway turned, half a head shorter than Gideon, a little aggressive because he wasn’t feeling sure of himself. Hemmingway always raised his voice when he felt that he might be criticised.

  “We missed him by two minutes, that’s all.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Ratsy Roden,” Hemmingway said. “He worked for Lee, usually slept at Lee’s house, but he wasn’t there this morning, so I put a call out for him. He was sneaking out of a shop, and one of my chaps saw him and gave chase. He just folded up, like this.”

  “Oh,” said Gideon, and looked down at the small body of Ratsy Roden. Some men had no luck at all. Ratsy had a name which had acted like a curse all his life, and a thin face with a receding chin, a pointed nose and a sloping forehead. Any way one looked at it, Ratsy was an apt name. Now he lay dead, perhaps of his own hand, perhaps murdered, perhaps of natural causes.

  “He was afraid we were searching the shops,” Hemmingway said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if we found that he killed Lee.”

  “What shop did he come from?” Gideon asked.

  “Near Tod Cowan’s place.” Hemmingway nodded to a small corner shop, outside which were two stalls filled with men’s clothes, and with socks and braces, suspenders and ties. “We’d better have a look round. If you’d rather go to Frisky’s house, I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Gideon said. He walked with Hemmingway towards the shop, where a little man with a hooked nose stood in his shirtsleeves, a tailor’s measure round his neck, thinning hair standing on end, an almost scared look in his big eyes.

  Just behind him was a big, fat woman who looked sixty, and garish with hair dyed an unnatural-looking auburn, the more incongruous because it was in curlers. She wore a gaily coloured dress with a pattern of huge flowers, and this was a little too tight for her, especially at the hips. She darted nervous glances from Tod Cowan, her husband, to the Police.

  “Tod, tell the gentlemen,” she urged.

  “Already I have told them,” Tod Cowan said, and spread his hands. “Could I turn Ratsy away, a poor boy I have known all my life?”

  “You would never have been so cruel, Tod,” his wife asserted, and her brown eyes steadied, to challenge Gideon and Hemmingway.

  “That’s right,” Tod hurried to confirm, “I could never have been so cruel.” He patted his wife’s hand.

  Gideon left this to Hemmingway, who might be aggressive because he expected blame for letting this go wrong, but was far and away the best man for dealing with the people of the East End. He was known to be fair, known to try and make sure that no one had a raw deal. He didn’t smile, but asked mildly: “When did Roden come?”

  “About six o’clock.”

  “Six o’clock it was,” echoed Mrs. Cowan.

  “Wake you up?”

  “Yeth, he tapped at the window, Mr. Hemmingway. Frightened the life out of me, he did.”

  “Did he say why he’d come?”

  “He said Frisky had been at him again, Mr. Hemmingway, that’s what he told me,” Cowan declared, and his wife nodded so vigorously that the dyed hair bobbed up and down in its tight wire curlers. “I didn’t think that he’d done anything wrong,” Tod added, “but even if I had, how could I say no to him? He was a good boy at heart, I know he was a good boy.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  “On my heart, Mr. Hemmingway, he didn’t say another word. I told him to make himself a cup of char and he slept in the corner of the shop, like he often does. When Frisky’s in drink he’s terrible, Mr. Hemmingway.”

  “He’s a devil, that’s what he is,” damned Mrs. Cowan.

  “What made Roden leave?” asked Hemmingway.

  “Well, I was out here serving, and a policeman asked me a few questions, and I suppose Ratsy thought I’d mention him. All I know is that Ratsy came running out. I’ve never been so astonished in my life, Mr. Hemmingway, never indeed. He looked as if he was dying on his feet, he did really.”

  “All right, thanks,” said Hemmingway. “You’ll make a formal statement later and sign it, Tod, won’t you?”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Hemmingway.”

  “Anything at all.” The hair-curlers danced.

  “Good. Now we’ll have a look round the shop,” said Hemmingway. “You can go upstairs to your living-room, Mrs. Cowan. And you, Tod.”

  He led the way inside as an ambulance bell sounded nearby, loud as if all London was sick. The police began to clear a path for it, and the Divisional Surgeon and the other Detectives stayed near the body.

  Inside the outfitter’s shop it was gloomy, for the windows were covered with huge signs, like bargain—final offer, and with huge painted prices. The walls were lined with racks of clothes, except at one side, where there was a long counter, with cabinets for shirts, socks, ties, the smaller items, behind it. In a corner was a dilapidated armchair of the type which could be let down to make a couch. By the side of this was an old overcoat, which had obviously been used as a blanket.

  Hemmingway picked this up, and began to go through the pockets. Suddenly he snatched his hand away as if he had been stung.

  “What is it?” Gideon demanded.

  “It’s a knife,” Hemmingway said, and carefully turned the coat upside down and shook it, until a long, daggerlike knife slid out and fell on to the bed. The blade was coated with a browny kind of stain, except in one spot, which had been cleaned; and that spot glistened like silver.

  “Did he do it, or was it planted on him?” Hemmingway asked.

  “That’s the question,” said Gideon heavily. “I wonder how soon we’ll know how Ratsy died.”

  9

  FACTS ABOUT FRISKY

  Gideon felt the tensions crowding him as he stepped over the threshold: he would never have believed how tight a hold Frisky had on him; how deep and bitter was his resentment that the man had been able to hold him at bay.

  Who had killed him, just three weeks before leaving for Australia with his lovely young wife and their child? Was the timing significant?

  With luck, the wife would be in a state of emotional panic now; shocked, defenceless, alone. Soon
a doctor would come hurrying and order the police not to question her; and Gabriel Lyon, Frisky’s lawyer, would come, smiling and suave, to look after her interests as expertly as any man in London.

  Gideon had to act fast.

  The hallway was narrow in this three-storeyed house in a small terrace. Gideon had noticed that this one and its two neighbours had been freshly painted outside; inside, the hall was spick and span, and on a hall-stand was a jug of daffodils. It reminded him of his and Kate’s homecoming, the day before.

  Then, he heard a baby cry.

  The sound came clearly for a second or two, then fell away into a gurgling, and into silence.

  “Frisky’s son,” Hemmingway remarked.

  “How’s his wife?”

  “Struck dumb,” said Hemmingway.

  “Genuine?”

  “It looked like it,” said Hemmingway. “We’ll soon find out.” A plainclothes Divisional man was at the foot of a narrow flight of stairs, and Hemmingway approached him, while Gideon realised that there was something a little odd about the look of the hall by the staircase and, stepping forward, saw that an archway had been made in the wall on either side. Glancing right and left, he saw other staircases; so three houses had been knocked into one; and that made this a big place. He had heard about building work being done here, but hadn’t even suspected the extent of it. He did know that Hemmingway had questioned the builders closely, to find out if anything had been bricked up, or whether there were secret safes or cellars where stolen goods could be stored.

  Hemmingway asked: “Dawson upstairs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mrs. Lee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Hemmingway. He led the way up, and the two big men were a tight fit on the narrow staircase. It was a new one, Gideon saw, and beautifully made. The panelled wallpaper was the most expensive money could buy. The carpet was thick and their footsteps made no sound.

  Suddenly the baby started to cry again, and a moment later a woman appeared, carrying and crooning to a bundle in her arms. But this was not Lee’s widow: this was a woman of middle-age, wearing too much make-up, and tight-fitting clothes. The baby only murmured, now. The woman had been a beauty once, and tried not to forget it, but the only real beauty left to her was in bright, deep blue eyes.

  “Which one of you is Mr. Gideon?” she demanded, still rocking the baby in her arms, unexpectedly maternal in her manner.

  “I am, madam.”

  “I’m Mr. Lee’s mother-in-law,” the woman announced. “If you’ve a Christian thought in your head, Mr. Gideon, you won’t worry my daughter with questions now, she’s had a terrible shock.”

  “We won’t keep her a moment longer than we have to,” Gideon promised.

  “You don’t have to worry her at all!” The woman’s fine eyes flashed and her voice barked, but all the time she rocked the babe, gently. “Frisky was right, from what I can see, you police are all the same.”

  “We just have to do our job,” Gideon said. “We have to find who killed—”

  “You don’t have to find anybody,” Lee’s mother-in-law declared. “It was Ratsy, he was so crazy he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Positive it was Roden?” Gideon demanded.

  “Don’t be so bloody smart,” she retorted. “I didn’t see him, if I had I’d have stopped the rat. But the way he was carrying on about Frisky last night is enough for me, foaming at the mouth, he was, and Frisky did everything for him, absolutely everything.”

  “Exactly how did Roden ‘carry on’?” asked Gideon.

  “He behaved like a mad thing, that’s how he carried on, said he’d kill Frisky if it was the last thing he did. Frisky just thought he was blowing his top. But I can’t stand here gassing any longer. You just give my Ada a chance to get over this terrible shock, that’s all.”

  She turned back into the room she had come from.

  Hemmingway whispered: “Frisky must have had some good qualities, to let a ma-in-law like that live with them.”

  Gideon made no comment.

  The landing here had been extended, too, and Gideon saw the landings of the other two houses; quite a job of reconstruction. He saw a small book-lined room through an open doorway, and the glimpse told him that it wouldn’t shame anyone. Hemmingway led the way along a passage leading to the front of the house, and said: “Frisky’s been sleeping alone since the baby arrived, his wife had the kid in her room. That’s how it was she didn’t find out what had happened until late. Got up, fed the kid, made some tea and took it into Frisky, and then she saw—”

  Hemmingway had a love of the dramatic, often without realising it. He finished outside an open door which was guarded by a uniformed policeman. Two men were inside when Gideon stepped in to see exactly what Mrs. Lee had seen.

  It almost turned his stomach.

  Lee had been lying on his back. The first slash of the knife had probably killed him, but there had been many more slashes. Blood, drying and congealing to a dark brown, now, was everywhere; it splashed the wall, it even splashed the cream-coloured carpet. Wherever there were splashes there were chalk marks on the wall; obviously the photographers and the fingerprint men had been busy here, and the job was nearly done. Two men at the window gave Gideon the impression that they’d been at it for a long time.

  “Enough to unhinge her,” Hemmingway remarked.

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon, and didn’t look away from the man on the bed, although he had to clench his teeth. “Anything spring to your mind when you first saw this?”

  Hemmingway frowned.

  “Plenty.”

  “Hate.”

  “Eh?”

  “Whoever killed him hated him, or wanted it to look as if he did,” said Gideon.

  “Ah,” muttered Hemmingway. “He was asleep, obviously didn’t move or do anything to try to fend the chap off, so the first blow killed him. Cartoid artery. And then slash and slash again. Yes. Depends on the strength of the blows a lot, I suppose.” He rubbed his chin slowly, very thoughtfully, then looked across at the man at the window. “You got anything?”

  “Someone came through this window all right,” the man said. “Scratches all over the paint, one or two fingerprint blurs, too, we might be able to get something.”

  Hemmingway nodded. Gideon stepped across to the window, examined the scratches, and remembered the footprint on the window at Chilton Court, of the woman who had climbed to her death—backwards. This window overlooked the backs of small houses, and the blank wall of a warehouse which was only two storeys high. There were window-sills and big pipes below, and it would not be difficult to climb up, for any man who was nimble and not nervous. Gideon wondered whether it was possible to check if these marks had been made by someone coming in or climbing out, but he did not ask the question then. All these things had to be looked at first, but he was anxious to talk to Mrs. Lee.

  “Any signs of breaking and entering downstairs or the other rooms?”

  “No.”

  “Be a help when we know whose prints they are,” said Gideon, looking at several smears of grey powder. It was very hot, and he was sweating as he turned away. In the distance he could hear the buzz of sound in the street markets.

  “Going to talk to Mrs. Lee before Gabby Lyon comes?” Hemmingway asked. “Lee’s ma-in-law will have sent for him by now.”

  “Yes,” said Gideon. “Your chaps are turning the place inside out, aren’t they?”

  “If there’s anything to find here, we’ll find it,” Hemmingway asserted. “I’ve always wanted to see Frisky your way, remember.”

  He tapped sharply at a door across the landing, and a woman called thinly: “Come in.” Then the baby cried in another room, and the grandmother with the flashing eyes began to croon again.


  Hemmingway thrust open the door.

  Frisky Lee’s widow sat, alone, in a winged armchair in a corner of a large room – so large that obviously two rooms had been knocked into one. It was beautiful; and in spite of her pallor and the look in her eyes, Mrs. Lee had real beauty, too. Her hands were resting lightly on the arms of the chair, and she looked almost as if she was made of marble. She wore a pale rose-pink robe, high at the neck, superbly shaped at breasts and waist, and falling about her legs to the floor in great folds.

  The window was open. This room was at the front of the house, so the sounds of the market came in more clearly, raucous though distant, and there was no quiet.

  The room was panelled in satin. The single bed had a canopy at its head, and satin panels, too. By the side, empty, was one of the most beautiful cribs Gideon had ever seen, all pale blue muslin and lace for Frisky Lee’s son. On each panel of the wall was a reproduction of a Gainsborough or something very like it. The furniture was exquisite reproduction of the Louis XV period. The room might belong to the wife of a millionaire, and here sat Frisky Lee’s widow, in the heart of the East End of London, with its drabness and its squalor, its poverty and distress.

  Mrs. Lee stared at Gideon.

  Hemmingway said: “This is Commander Gideon, from Scotland Yard.”

  “I’m very sorry about this, Mrs. Lee,” Gideon said, almost perfunctorily. “Do you know who did it?”

  She didn’t look away from him.

  “I can’t help you,” she said. “I don’t know who did it. I don’t know anything.” She spoke quite well, with only a faint undertone of Cockney; but either she was numb with shock, or she was going to play dumb.

  “You must be able to help us, Mrs. Lee. Do you—”

  “I can’t help you, I don’t know anything,” she insisted. “I can’t help you at all.”

  That was when Gideon sensed the truth; and Hemmingway did, too. The woman was afraid to talk. The dead hand of her husband was heavy upon her, as it had lain upon so many others. Could he hope to break her down?