Look Three Ways At Murder

by John Creasey

Then, quite suddenly, she fell forward as if all the strength had gone out of her legs. She fell against Roger. He held her steady for a few seconds, but she was a dead weight; he thought at first that she had fainted. Gradually, he eased her upright, but still supported her. She was huddled in his arms, hands together in an attitude of prayer and against his chest, very close, helpless, quivering – so she hadn’t fainted. He found himself stroking her hair. He found himself pressing her a little closer. He found his face against her hair.

  They stood like that for a long time.

  Very slowly, the quivering of her body stopped, until she was almost still, but she made no attempt to free herself.

  He felt, strangely, remotely, as if he was standing with Janet in his arms, not another woman. There was something right and natural about their closeness; a sense of inevitability. But for her hair, so fair, so golden-coloured, she might have been Janet. The complete surrender of her body, the complete dependence that she had on him for those few minutes, took away all sense of strangeness and brought them together in a union of understanding.

  Slowly, she raised her head, but Roger did not take his hand away, only held it there lightly. She reminded him even more of Janet – as Janet had been after Martin-called-Scoop had been taken away by men whom they knew were killers. Janet had screamed and raged and raved at him for “letting it happen” – and then she had collapsed into his arms.

  Tears had streaked Isobel Bennison’s face, had dimmed her eyes.

  “You will help me, won’t you?” she begged. “You will help me?”

  “I’ll help you,” he promised.

  He must stand back, must take his hand and arms away, must -

  “I feel so helpless on my own,” she said.

  They stood without moving, for what might have been a long time; and then the telephone bell rang.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Young Paul

  The telephone was in the hall – in almost the same position as it was at home. Roger felt the jarring through his head, the note was so harsh and loud. He felt Isobel’s body shudder, too – and then her head seemed to move back, but she didn’t let him go.

  “That might be—”

  “I’ll answer it,” Roger said.

  He freed himself, gently. The bell kept ringing, he had never noticed one as harsh and loud as this. Brrrk-brrrk-brrrk. He thrust the door back and strode towards the telephone. He stood with his back to the kitchen door, knowing that Isobel was staring at him as he snatched the receiver off.

  “This is Mrs Bennison’s house.”

  A woman said: “Is Mrs Bennison -?” and broke off.

  Through the mists of his mind, through the strangeness of the last five minutes, the truth came to Roger, and he could hardly believe it. This was Janet. It was as if Janet herself was behind him, and yet now was at the other end of the telephone. He shifted his position, and saw that Isobel had come as far as the doorway; some strange compulsion had made him look and make sure that she wasn’t Janet. What the hell was happening to him?

  “Who is that?” Janet asked, quickly.

  “Jan,” Roger said. He tried to infuse surprise and heartiness into his voice. Janet would be as startled at finding him here as he was at hearing her. He could see Isobel, now. “It’s all right,” he called to her.

  “Roger,” Janet said, at the same moment. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, darling. I—” he wanted to reassure her, laughingly, or tease her about mistaking his voice, but he couldn’t laugh or tease at this moment. “It’s a bad line,” he said. “How did you know I was here?” The question itself was absurd. She could have called the office; Cope might still be there, and in any case would have left word with the night duty staff so that anyone who called would be able to find him at short notice. He wondered if Janet noticed how oddly he was talking.

  “I didn’t know,” Janet said. “But thank goodness you are. Darling, Paul – young Paul Bennison’s here.”

  Roger stood very still without speaking for several moments, taking in that news. Then he raised his right hand, the thumb cocked, and smiled at Isobel. He saw her as she moved forward again, a smile touching her face with momentary radiance.

  “It’s all right,” he said as she drew nearer. “He’s at my home.” He looked away from Isobel and spoke into the receiver. “Mrs Bennison was absolutely distraught with worry—you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” Janet said, matter-of-factly. “Roger, he came to—can she hear?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been wandering about all day, not knowing what to do. Apparently he overheard what the doctor said to his mother this morning. He’d heard you lived in Chelsea, and looked in the telephone directory. He says you’re the only one who might be able to help him. He seems to think that everything might work out if you catch the man who attacked his father. He’s a bundle of nerves and contradictions and fears. Roger, is it really certain, now? I mean, the—the effect on Bennison.”

  “I haven’t been told,” Roger said.

  Isobel had crept up and was standing very close to him, as if she wanted to hear what was being said. There wasn’t much room. He shifted his position, and folded his right arm across his chest, rather than slide it round her waist.

  “How is Mrs Bennison?” Janet inquired.

  “Much better now,” said Roger. “She’s standing right by me. Would you like a word with her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “No,” protested Isobel. “No, I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I—”

  Roger took her hand, placed the telephone receiver in it, and made her lift it to her ear. She was half crying, but that didn’t matter – no one else in the world would be able to help her in the way that Janet could; Janet had a gift for dealing with a crisis of this kind. He heard Isobel say something about being silly but she’d been so worried, as he reached the front door. He wanted a drink – he needed one. There was a flask in the dashboard pocket. He opened the front door, left it ajar, and strolled to his car.

  A man was standing near it.

  “Detective Sergeant Robson, sir—from the Division. I’m afraid there’s no news of the Bennison boy.”

  “I’ve just had some,” Roger said. “He turned up at my place, for some odd reason.” He hoped that his voice sounded casual enough.

  “Oh, that’s good, sir!”

  “Yes. Use my car radio and tell the Yard, will you? And have them cancel the call to all Divisions. Any other news?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Other news” of course would mean the capture of Marriott and Dorris. It was strange how completely that had faded from his mind in the last half hour. It was like a problem which belonged to a different world, which someone else had to solve.

  He lit a cigarette. The whisky flask could stay in the dashboard pocket – if he took a swig now, the report that Handsome West was on the bottle would go round the Division, and soon the whole of London, like a gust of wind. He strolled back to the house. The door had swung open, and light streamed through. Isobel was still at the telephone, talking more animatedly.

  A door opened at the next house, and a middle-aged woman appeared in another stream of light; he recognised her as one of the two whom he had seen on his first visit here.

  “Excuse me, are you a police—oh, it’s Superintendent West!” She was at her gate.

  “Good evening, Mrs Abbott,” Roger said. “We’ve just heard that young Paul is all right.”

  “Oh, thank goodness for that! We’ve been so worried. I didn’t want to frighten Isobel, but …” Mrs Abbott went on talking, until the detective came from the car and Isobel came hurrying from her house. “Isobel, I’m so relieved …”

  “Yes, Meg, isn’t it wonderful? Mr West, your wife said you wo
uldn’t mind taking me to Paul, and if you would I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course,” Roger said. “Finished with the radio, sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Close the front door of the house, and—”

  “Isobel, you ought to have a coat, or something round you,” said Mrs Abbott.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I—” Isobel stopped suddenly, put a hand to her hair, and seemed to realise what kind of a mess she must look. Hastily, she turned round. “Yes, of course, I won’t be a minute, Mr West. I’ll see to the doors.” She went hurrying, moving very gracefully despite her mood, and disappeared into the house. Two big moths fluttered near her head.

  “The place will be full of moths if she doesn’t close that door,” Mrs Abbott fussed.

  “I’ll close it,” Roger said.

  “You’re very kind. I can’t tell you what a relief this is – if anything had happened to young Paul on top of what’s happened already, I think it would have driven her out of her mind. I must go and tell Mrs Hargreaves that Paul’s all right.” The friendly neighbour hesitated, then unexpectedly held out her hand. “Mr West, I want to thank you very much for all you’ve done.”

  “I’ve done nothing!”

  “You have, you know,” declared Mrs Abbott. “You’ve made Isobel Bennison and a lot of other people realise that the police care about what happens—really care.” She began to mumble, squeezed his hand, and hurried along the street.

  Roger stood in the hall of the Bennison house, the front door closed against the insects of the night. Now and again he heard movement above – much as he would at home if he were ready to go out, and was waiting for Janet. There were quick, hurried footsteps, and long pauses. He still wanted a drink, but no longer needed it – and in any case wouldn’t have one before driving. He was getting back to normal. He smiled grimly to himself, and went in the front room, putting the light on. He remembered the family photograph – the original of one which had been reproduced in the newspapers. Bennison had a fine, strong face; his wife looked younger here, and a happy woman.

  She came hurrying down the stairs, and Roger went to the passage door. For a moment, he was completely taken aback, for those few minutes had changed her so much. She had made up, and put on a hat – a small white one, which suited her. And she had changed into a two-piece suit, of dark green – it looked smart, even expensive. Her eyes were brighter, and she had managed to get rid of most of the traces of tears.

  “My word,” he exclaimed. “That was a quick change!”

  “I couldn’t go out looking such a mess,” she said. “And your wife was so kind.” She looked at him, perhaps a little strangely. He stood aside for her to go out, checked that the door latch clicked home, and found the sergeant at the car door, opening it for Isobel. Roger took the wheel. It was the second time he had driven her.

  “Goodnight, Robson.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  Roger eased off the clutch and nosed the car forward. He was aware of faint perfume, from a powder which was not unfamiliar. In the faint light from the dashboard he saw Isobel Bennison’s legs stretched out. The skirt cut half-way across her knees. She sat back, as if quite relaxed. When they had turned the comer, she said:

  “I quite forgot—I meant to offer you a drink.”

  “I nearly helped myself,” he said, “and then realised that I shouldn’t, just before driving. I’m very glad it’s worked out like this with young Paul.”

  “It’s a strange thing, but I feel better than I have for a long time,” she said. “It’s partly because my son’s all right, of course, that was such a relief, but—” she hesitated while he passed a slow-moving mini-car, and went on: “But it was mostly because I was able to talk about it to you. I shall never be able to say how much I appreciate—”

  “Forget it,” Roger said, gruffly.

  “I certainly shall not forget it. I shall always be grateful.”

  “I shall always be glad I could help.”

  After a pause, she said: “Yes, I believe you will.” They were silent for a few seconds, until Roger took out cigarettes and handed the case to her. “I don’t smoke, thank you,” she said. “My husband and I made a pledge not to, until the mortgage was cleared off the house. We’ve only three more years to go, and then we shall have a tobacco orgy. We—”

  She caught her breath.

  “The one thing you’ve got to remember is that surgeons can be as wrong as anyone,” Roger said. “Semple-Smith was only warning the doctor in case something like it happened. He wasn’t saying that it’s a certainty, no doctor or surgeon could possibly say that.”

  “Had he told you before?”

  “He’d said it was a possibility,” Roger answered. “But I’m a long way from convinced that he’s right. I’m afraid your husband is going to have a rough time with his leg and his shoulder, but—”

  She interrupted.

  “Whatever happens I shall have to make the best of it. I’m sure I can.” And after a pause, she went on: “I can’t tell you how much calmer I feel.”

  “That’s good,” Roger said. “That’s wonderful.”

  The light was on in the front room of Roger’s Bell Street house when he pulled up, but he could see only Janet in there; not young Paul. He helped Isobel out of the car, and they walked to the front door. Janet opened the door as they reached it, eager and glad to see them. Her hands went out to Isobel, woman-to-woman.

  “Don’t talk too loud,” she said to Roger. “They’re in the living room with the television on. Thank heavens there was a Western tonight!” She led the way into the front room, almost conspiratorially, and Roger glanced round and thought: Bless your heart. For a supper table was laid, with sandwiches, biscuits, slices of melon and some apples and bananas. Coffee and tea were at hand, a kettle was plugged into the point by the fireplace.

  “Paul was ravenous,” Janet went on. “And he said he didn’t think you’d been eating much lately, either. Do sit down.” If she noticed the tears in Isobel’s eyes, she ignored them. “The Western goes on until ten past ten, so we’ve still twenty minutes. Would you like tea or coffee, Mrs Bennison?”

  “Or a real drink?” suggested Roger.

  “I’d love some coffee.”

  “Then I’ll have the drink,” Roger said, and turned to the sideboard where they kept the store of sherry, gin and whisky with all the accessories, and helped himself to the whisky and soda he had been wanting for an hour.

  The two women sat down. There wasn’t really much likeness between them, except – well, Janet’s hair was rather thick and naturally wavy and cut in the same fashion, although so dark except where there were touches of grey; facially they could hardly have been more different, but their figures …

  “Please do help yourself,” Janet said.

  “Now that’s an idea,” murmured Roger, reaching forward. Isobel smiled up at him, brushed a hand across her eyes, and took a sandwich. “What did happen?”

  “Paul arrived here about half an hour before I telephoned you, and asked to see you,” Janet explained. “I recognised him from the newspapers, and I could see that he seemed upset. He wouldn’t talk to me, but Scoop and Fish were in, and I left him with them. One or the other made him start talking, and once started he couldn’t stop. I think he was really suffering from a kind of delayed shock. The thing which worried him most was that he couldn’t think of a way to help you, Mrs Bennison, and—”

  “Isobel,” murmured Roger.

  “Eh? Oh, of course,” Janet gave a natural little laugh. “Yes, that’s much more friendly. What was I saying? Oh, yes. As far as Scoop could make out, Paul felt that if my husband could catch the men who were responsible you could all make a fresh start. I think that’s become a kind of fixation with him. When are you going to catch them, darling?”
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  Roger shrugged: “The first moment we can.”

  “Did Paul say much about—about this morning and the doctor’s visit?” asked Isobel, very quietly.

  “Not much. As a matter of fact, I think Richard did him a lot of good. He told Richard about this—suggestion of—”

  “Mental shock,” interpolated Isobel.

  Janet said levelly: “Yes, that’s the phrase Paul used. Richard’s reaction was to jump up and say that all doctors were probably a bit mad, anyhow, like all school teachers. It made Paul laugh.”

  “I think the West family has a kind of magic wand,” Isobel said. She was eating the sandwiches with a steadiness which was a good sign in itself. “I was at my wits’ end when your husband came.” Two sandwiches later, Isobel asked: “Do you think your boys could possibly persuade Paul to go and spend the rest of the week with his grandparents? I think I would be better on my own.”

  “What I was going to suggest was that he should go with Scoop and Richard to camp this week-end,” said Janet. “They’re going for four week-ends altogether, and next week is the third one and the longest—Thursday to Tuesday. It’s a school camp, but friends are allowed, and it’s not expensive. Do you think that would be all right?”

  “If only Paul will go,” Isobel said.

  “I like your Mrs Bennison,” Janet said, when she and Roger were in bed together, a little before midnight. “When are you going to find these men, darling?”

  “You have the same feeling as young Paul, have you?”

  “In a way I suppose I have. I think they’ll all feel that they’re off to a fresh start.”

  “I know what you mean,” Roger said gruffly. “If that doctor hadn’t—”

  “I don’t know that he was wrong, except in not making sure that the boy didn’t hear—and perhaps in telling her without seeing that a woman or friends were with her. Supposing she had felt that her husband was getting better physically, and then suddenly found out there was something the matter with his mind. That shock would have been worse, surely.”