Look Three Ways At Murder

by John Creasey

  Everyone liked her – even young Alec Gool, who had no time for women, respected her. Stevens had first learnt about her years of widowhood, about her daughter with the children and her son in Australia, from Alec. The East End was like a country village, everyone knew all there was to know about his neighbour – or thought he did.

  The odd thing was that Joyce’s dark hair was turning grey at the temples and with a few streaks where she drew it back from the forehead, and instead of making her look older, it made her look younger. He had noticed the way she dealt with the customers, especially the drunks, and she had soothed him.

  She always did. He liked being with her. He had wanted to spend not only the evening but the night with her. It would not be long before he did, but – he was anxious that she should want him. He was in love with her, of course, but whenever he realised this, he reacted against it – being in love implied dependence on her, and he would be dependent on no one.

  He reached her house; and the light was on in the front room, her bedroom. He could see it at the edges of the curtains and at the tiny gap in the middle.

  He thought of her, in bed.

  Oh God, he wanted her!

  He went close to the window, which was flush with the pavement, and tapped. There was no response. He tapped again, a little rhythm that always amused her, from: What shall we do with a drunken sailor? Da-di-di-da-di-da-di-da-da-da! Out here in the street, the tap of his knuckles on the glass sounded quite loud, but there was still no response. She must know he was there. She wasn’t going to pretend that she didn’t, was she? He clenched his fist, and drew it back, to make more noise, but just managed to stop himself. He gritted his teeth. There was a pain at the back of his head from a headache which he had kept at bay all day. If he let himself go he would smash that window. If he –

  The door opened, and light shone out.

  “Steve, what are you doing there?”

  She was framed in the doorway, still fully dressed, but her hair was down to her shoulders. It was like a halo, misty against the dim light behind her. He could not see her face clearly. He felt the anger ease out of his body, taking tension with it.

  “I want to see you,” he said. “I didn’t think I would be so long. I was going to buy you supper, remember?”

  Wasn’t she going to ask him in?

  “I haven’t had mine yet,” she said quietly. “But it’s too late to go to a restaurant.” She drew back into the narrow passage. “You’d better come in.”

  He stepped past her. She closed the door. They were very close to each other, the passage so narrow that his back was touching one wall, hers must be touching the other. He was a head taller. He could go along the passage into the bedroom, or further along, into the living room and kitchen – he had been here, twice, briefly. He felt an all-consuming desire for her. He did not move away, but slid his arms round her and brought her very close, pressing himself against her.

  “Joyce, tonight’s the night,” he said roughly. “It’s got to be tonight.” He held her so that her head was back, her lips were parted a little, glistening. He crushed them with his own. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her throat. “Joyce, tonight’s the night, it’s got to be tonight.”

  Joyce had never intended it to be like this, but as she heard his hoarse voice and felt the pressure of his Ups, his hands, his arms, his body, she had a sense of his great need.

  Chapter Eight

  Second Visit

  Roger West reached his home in Bell Street, Chelsea, a little after seven o’clock that night. He knew that his two sons, Martin-called-Scoop and Richard-sometimes-called-Fish, would not be home. They had gone for a long weekend to a camp organised by their school. In a way, he was glad. He felt tired and on edge, and it would be difficult to be patient with youthful high spirits, if the need for patience arose.

  He put the car into the garage, and recalled how very like the Bennisons’ garage it was, then walked along the crazy paving path to the back door. He heard music on; Janet probably hadn’t heard him. He went in by the back door, where the sound of music was louder. Janet wasn’t in here, but the kitchen was spick-and-span, as always. The oven light glowed, so she had something cooking for him. His eyes and his thoughts kindled.

  He went along the passage leading from the kitchen to the front room, peered in, but Janet wasn’t there, either. His chair was drawn up closer to the window, the morning and evening newspapers, cigarettes, whisky and soda were on a small table by the side of the chair; whenever he was late, Janet got these things ready. The radio was on in the room.

  Where was she?

  He smiled to himself, and went upstairs, all the sound he made muffled by the music. Then he saw her – in their bedroom, which overlooked Bell Street. She was looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror, which was so placed that she couldn’t see the reflection of anyone in the doorway. She was peering forward, lips pursed, and slowly put her head on one side. She had a pink towel round her shoulders, and her blouse was lying on the foot of the double bed. She turned her head round slightly in the other direction. Roger crept towards her. Any moment she might turn and see him, but she was so intent on her self-appraisal that she didn’t notice. He stretched forward, touched the towel and snatched it off her shoulders.

  She jumped wildly.

  “Roger!”

  In pulling the towel, he also pulled off one of the thin shoulder straps of her brassiere. Her shoulders were bare, it was easy to see the depth of her bosom, and the satiny smoothness of her skin. As she turned round, face uplifted, eyes bright although partly because he had scared her, head tilted back, she looked – wonderful. She had looked wonderful for over twenty years. He leaned down and kissed her with more passion than he had for a long time. When he drew back, she was a little breathless.

  “Hallo, my darling,” Roger said.

  “I love you,” said Janet, in a rather husky voice. “Why did you do that?”

  “Kiss you?”

  “Kiss me like that?”

  “You looked so desirable.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’m serious,” he assured her. “You look—”

  “You couldn’t see me.”

  “I could see enough of you,” he retorted, and glanced at the drooping brassiere.

  She smiled, but he sensed that she was still thoughtful.

  “Roger, did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “What I’ve been doing?”

  “No,” he said. “If you’ve been doing anything unusual, or anything you shouldn’t, I’ve been completely unaware. No detective knows anything about his wife and family. What have you been up to?”

  “Just for a moment I thought you knew,” said Janet, looking a little wistful. “I’ve been using a new skin cream for two or three weeks. I think it has made a difference—it’s given me a—” she broke off, and her eyes seemed to tease as well as to laugh. “Well, what has it given me?”

  Roger studied her closely, and began to realise that she had in fact looked at her best lately; perhaps a little younger. He should have told her so, but hadn’t thought to. Now he studied her closely, using his training in observation to pick out the difference – and suddenly he saw and understood.

  “Really want to know?” he asked.

  “Go on. Guess!”

  “It’s no guess, it’s certain knowledge. It’s given you a kind of bloom.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Do you really think so? That’s exactly what it’s supposed to do, and it isn’t expensive—the chemist makes it up, ten shillings’ worth will last three months. Roger, it is worth it, isn’t it?”

  “It’s cheap at the price.”

  “I’d just been brushing my hair, and I thought my skin was better,” Janet said. She stood up, quickly.
“You must be famished. I’ve a chop and some vegetables in the oven, it won’t be two jiffs.” She hooked the narrow strap back over her shoulder, dodged his roaming hand, and slid into the green shirt blouse. “I do not want any help in doing it up,” she said, slapping his hand away. “What kind of a day have you had, darling?”

  Until that moment, and for five minutes, he had forgotten. Recollection came over him like a dark shadow. He said: “So-so,” and followed her out of the room and down the stairs. At the foot, she turned to look at him thoughtfully, and when they were in the kitchen, and he was sipping a whisky and soda while watching her get his supper out of the oven, she said: “It’s been rough, has it?”

  “Pretty rough.”

  “That Covent Garden murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “That poor woman,” Janet said. Her face was flushed from the heat of the oven as she brought the steaming, piled-up plate out, topped with an aluminium saucepan lid. “How is the man Bennison? The evening paper says he’s critically ill.”

  “They’re certainly right,” Roger said. He tossed down the rest of the whisky. “Very critically ill.”

  Janet didn’t respond, but fetched salt and pepper, bread and butter, a big dish with a little fruit jelly left in it, and put all these on the table.

  “Let it cool down for a few minutes,” she advised.

  He wished that she had not changed the subject so abruptly; this was one of the evenings when he would like to talk to her; talking so often helped. He wanted to get his mind completely clear on the case, and Janet knew almost as well as he did himself that he would have little rest from it tonight.

  “I think I’ll have another tot,” he said.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No, I—”

  She smiled into his face, very soberly. She was nice-looking, dark, not even slightly matronly. And at this moment she was very serious.

  “Sit down, darling,” she said. “I’ll get you another drink. Do you want to wash?”

  He washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink, and when she came back, he was draping his jacket over the back of a chair.

  “Thanks.” He sipped.

  “Have you seen Mrs Bennison?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had a feeling that you had,” said Janet. “I wondered if it was one of those cases.”

  “Those?” She often startled him with this kind of comment.

  “The cases that affect you emotionally,” Janet said, carefully. “They’re so much harder to solve, aren’t they? Do you think you know who did it?”

  “Not yet,” said Roger. After a pause, he went on: “We’ve descriptions of three men involved, but they might fit a lot of people. We didn’t find a single finger-print or foot-print

  that was of any use. Three men in the lab have been going

  through everything we swept up from the spot where it

  happened—and haven’t found a thing. Hundreds of people

  go past there every hour. No one who saw the men recognised them – they were strangers to the market … ”

  He hardly realised how rapidly he was talking, or how intent Janet was.

  “… We thought at first that it might have been an attack on the wrong man, as only five hundred pounds was involved, but I think the indications are it was meant for Bennison. They must have seen him often before, if they watched Revel’s. The attack on the guard came later – and after he came face to face with his killer. That could indicate that guard and killer knew each other. I’m trying to get someone in the vicinity to remember if they’ve seen anyone resembling the attackers before, but no luck so far. Some people who saw the men leaving the lorry in Goswell Road have described two of the men pretty clearly, and the descriptions tally with those of the eye-witnesses to the actual attack, but even that doesn’t get us much further. Whenever we pick up suspects we should be able to get the men picked out in an identification parade but first we want those men. All the Divisions are busy, and we’ve had sketches made of the images that the eye-witnesses were able to give us, but that doesn’t always do much good. I’ve got an uneasy feeling about the case.”

  He stopped, at last.

  “Darling,” Janet said, “when you get emotionally involved you always have an uneasy feeling. I shouldn’t worry too much about that. What’s made you feel guilty?”

  “Don’t be silly, I don’t feel guilty!”

  “Don’t you?”

  He looked at her, a little put out at first, then suddenly he laughed. He finished the drink, and sat down in front of the food heaped up on his plate. The aroma from it, the moment the saucepan lid was off, was enough to make him feel ravenous.

  “A silly thing,” he said. “She asked me why I—why we let these things happen.”

  He began to eat. Janet didn’t speak, but went and sat on the other side of the kitchen table, with its pale green formica top, and the steam from the meal misted her features slightly.

  “I suppose, when you’re worked up like that, you’ll say anything,” Janet said. After a pause, she went on: “Were you able to help her?”

  “Not much,” Roger said. “Jan—” he hesitated, then pushed his chair back. “There’s a risk that it will turn Bennison into an idiot.”

  Janet caught her breath.

  “So the surgeon says,” said Roger, savagely. “There’s no certainty but—” he broke off, pulled his chair up again, and began to eat with less appetite. “If I could only get one single clue I would feel better, but it’s a complete blank. What we really depend on is luck. I know we often do, but usually we have something that will point the way. This time, we haven’t.”

  “What kind of luck do you need?”

  “We want someone who saw the men today to catch sight of them again,” Roger said. “Oh, we’ll work on the descriptions, but I’m not really sanguine.”

  “That could be because you’ve taken it so hard,” Janet said.

  “Could be.” Roger left some potatoes and some runner beans on his plate, but finished the rich, meaty chop. “That was good! What—hey! What are you having?” His voice rose, and he was annoyed with himself for being so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed until now that Janet wasn’t eating.

  “I had a big tea over at May Hargreaves,” Janet said. “All I need is a snack later. Where do the Bennisons five?”

  “Wimbledon,” Roger answered absently.

  “I’ve been in nearly all day,” said Janet. “And we haven’t had a drive across Wimbledon Common for months. Would you like to go for a run, and look in?”

  She realised just how much the Bennison family was on his mind, of course.

  “It might be a good idea,” he agreed.

  “I’ll get my hat,” Janet said. “Let’s say ten minutes.”

  They were at the Bennisons just before a quarter to nine. Half-a-dozen people were in the street, and a policeman was on duty, obviously to clear the crowd along. When the car drew up, a girl appeared at the front door of the house, tall, grave-faced, not at all like her mother – for this was Rose Bennison. She looked puzzled when she saw Roger, as if she half recognised him.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” she said formally, “but my mother isn’t able to see anyone. She—”

  “I’m Superintendent West,” Roger explained. “My wife and I were passing, and we thought …”

  The girl’s eyes lit up.

  Indoors, eight-year-old Michael Bennison was already in bed and asleep. A grave-faced Paul Junior was sitting at a table in the living room, with text books in front of him. Mrs Bennison had some mending by her side. She jumped up quickly as Roger and Janet entered. “Rose, you should have told me!” She moved her chair back and pushed the mending-box on to a bookcase shelf by the chair, momentarily confused. “Paul dear, this is Superintendent West
, the man who—”

  She broke off.

  “I know who he is,” Paul said. He stood up from the table, but made no attempt to come forward. Roger, thinking more of the mother than of the children, moved across with his hand outstretched. The first indication that all was not well came when Paul hesitated for a long time before taking his hand; then the boy simply touched it, and withdrew quickly. Roger saw that he was more than grave; he was stony-faced. There was no light at all in his eyes, which were grey and had become slate grey.

  He stared at Roger unwinkingly.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Janet was saying to Mrs Bennison.

  Roger thought: I’ve two sons of my own, much about the age of this boy, yet I don’t know how to talk to him. He wanted to say something to break down the barrier which had been built, unseen, on that moment of meeting, but at all costs he must not say the wrong thing.

  “I talked to the surgeon who operated on your father,” he said at last. “He is a brilliant man.”

  After a pause, the boy said flatly: “Is he?”

  “Rose, put a kettle on and make some coffee, will you? Paul, pop over to Mrs Abbott and say that I’ll be over later.” Mrs Bennison was trying desperately to keep the situation from getting out of hand, fighting for normality – her sewing, the boy’s work, the instant decision to make coffee. Her tension and nervousness showed in the way her hands trembled, touching first a button on her navy-blue cardigan, then her hair, then her wedding ring.