by John Creasey
“Now how about a drink?” suggested Grice. “I’m still practically T.T., but my wife’s out at a hen party to-night, and I’m in no hurry.”
He bent down to get whisky and a syphon and glasses out of a cupboard in his desk.
“Cedric’s a complete teetotaller,” Rollison remarked, very thoughtfully. “Is young Benning, I wonder?”
Grice straightened up, sharply, and the good humour faded from his face.
“What’s that?”
“Just a little discourse on teetotallers and their simple ways,” said Rollison blandly. “Don’t tell me that you’re handling the Benning case, too. I know you were mentioned in the evening papers, but I thought it only meant that you were in charge.”
Grice was looking at him almost grimly.
“What do you know about Benning?”
“Nice looking. Nice mother. Nice girl-friend.”
“That woman’s a pest.”
“So she said.”
“So you’ve been won over by the two champions of young Benning, have you?” Grice remarked, and obviously did not relish this news at all. He sat down, pushed the two bottles across to Rollison, and lit a cigarette, a thing which he seldom did. “Help yourself, and tell me what you’ve really come about—Dwight or Benning?”
“I was trying to decide which job to take, and thought I’d find out which you recommended. Naturally,” went on Rollison, pouring Scotch carefully, “I was planning to take the one you didn’t recommend.”
“I shouldn’t touch either,” Grice said, almost too promptly. “I needn’t tell you any more about Dwight—sooner or later you were bound to get stung by a psycho; that isn’t surprising. As for young Benning—well, it will be an absolute waste of time. We know he often met Marjorie Fryer. In fact he saw her on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when Isobel Cole was at her art classes. There’s no doubt that young Benning tried to break the association, no doubt that she blackmailed him a little, too. He’d drawn a hundred pounds out of his Savings Bank, and a lot of the money was in her handbag.”
“Sure it was his?”
“Yes. It was covered with very fine sawdust—and he’d been working in his carpenter’s workshop that day. He says he didn’t give it to her, but—well, we’ll find that he lost his head and strangled her. If he had only given the girl a fright, I would have said that she’s asked for it. Except for this one episode, he seems a decent type of chap, but—” Grice, shrugging, became almost fatherly. “You don’t need telling that a lot of chaps who were nice enough have been hanged for murder they didn’t intend to commit. He’s lucky—he’ll be out in fifteen years or so, and still a young man.”
Rollison echoed: “Lucky? If he’s innocent?”
“He isn’t. There’s no shadow of doubt. I don’t mind telling you that his girl-friend and his mother nearly wore me down, they were so persistent, but the evidence is absolutely irrefutable. Benning wanted to break with the Fryer girl, she wouldn’t let him, and kept making him pay her by threatening to create a scene with Isobel. It drove him to desperation. His scarf was used. He was seen with the Fryer girl at a pub an hour before she was murdered—about an hour, at all events. Her body was found two minutes’ walk away from the pub. There are other things I can’t tell you, Rolly. It’s the tightest case I’ve had to handle for a long time, and being sorry for the boy or the woman and the girl don’t make any difference at all.”
Rollison pondered, remaining silent when Grice broke another habit, and poured himself a tot of whisky. He nearly drowned it with soda-water, sipped, and when Rollison still didn’t speak, went on almost testily: “What’s the matter? Don’t say I’ve found a way of stopping you from arguing.”
Rollison tossed down his drink, and stood up.
“No,” he answered briskly. “I’ve a little defiance left, but not necessarily about this, Bill; you sound right. You are probably right. But I can’t get Isobel Cole out of my mind. She came to see me this afternoon, and I promised to do what I could. I know, I know,” he hurried on, as Grice looked about to interrupt, “there isn’t much I can do. But will you fix it so that I can have a talk with Benning? Just let me see what I make of him myself. That way I’ll have an easier conscience, and you’ll have proved me wrong out of my own mouth.”
He was surprised at the intensity of his desire to see young Benning, and knew that Grice could make an interview possible, or else make sure that it could not take place.
Chapter Five
Talk
Grice did not answer immediately, and did not look away from Rollison, who stood with his back to the window. Big Ben struck the half-hour; he was surprised that he had been here so long. The traffic would be slackening and the buses no longer a phalanx, but a thin red line. He saw the reflection of the glittering wavelets of the Thames in the glass of a photograph of a football team on the wall near Grice’s desk. He knew that Grice was silent because he was making up his mind, and that there was nothing he could do to help him decide; only exceptional pressure would make him change once he had decided, and he liked always to be absolutely sure of doing the right thing.
At last he said: “I’ll arrange a meeting, but you can’t see him alone.” “That’s all right,” said Rollison, and felt warmly grateful to the Yard man, who now brushed his hand over his forehead, as if he were too hot. “When’s the best time, Bill?”
“Now.”
“Eh?”
“He’s here at the Yard,” Grice told him. “He hasn’t been sent to Brixton on remand yet.” He picked up a telephone, and said: “Give me the main waiting-room,” paused, and then went on: “Who’s with Benning now? … Yes, hold him until I come down. Thanks.” He rang off, and stood up, looking very big and spare-boned. “Just in time,” he said. “He would have been on his way to Brixton in five minutes.”
They went out, walking fast, but without hurrying, to a room several passages away. Outside a door stood a constable in uniform; he moved aside and saluted. Just inside was another room with a door leading to it, and a curious window in the door-panel. This was made of glass through which one could see from this side, but which looked opaque from the other. Rollison joined Grice near it, and saw another constable, a plain-clothes man, and a young man all standing quite close together. The young man’s profile was towards Rollison; at least he had a good chin. His nose was short, and he had a rather rugged look.
Grice opened the door.
Young Benning looked round swiftly, obviously very much on edge. He was pale but for spots of colour on his cheeks, and had very clear brown eyes – scared eyes. His brown hair was ruffled and unruly. When he ran his hand over his chin, his fingers were unsteady; but his gaze was direct enough. He looked at Grice, not at Rollison, and waited for some comment.
“Wait outside, Mr. Forbes, will you?” Grice said to the plain-clothes man. “You too, constable.”
They went out as Benning turned to Rollison. He frowned, as if half recognising the visitor. His jaw was set, as if he were determinedly fighting to keep his composure. That was probably typical of the family and of Isobel, too; all three ran true to type.
“Hallo, Benning,” Grice cried, and might have been speaking to a friend. “I’ve brought Mr. Rollison along. He wants a word with you.”
Benning seemed to ask: “Where have I seen that face before?” but he didn’t speak. He wasn’t sullen, simply on the defensive, and probably afraid of saying the wrong thing. It was easy to understand Isobel Cole falling in love with him. They had the same kind of simplicity, as well as the same kind of background, but many a youth of his kind had been spoiled, if not ruined, by the Marjorie Fryers of the world.
Rollison smiled, and greeted: “Hallo, Bob. Your mother and Isobel Cole asked me if I could help, and the police have given me a chance to try. If you didn’t kill this girl, the police won’t hesitate to try to find out who did.”
Benning said: “They take it for granted that I did.”
“Did you?”
&n
bsp; “I’ve told them a dozen times—no.”
“Did you see her that evening?”
“Yes, I saw her. I’ve told them I saw her. We met at the Rose and Crown. I went in there to see if a friend of mine was having a drink, but he wasn’t. She was there, and wouldn’t leave me alone. She followed me when I left, but I dodged her, and I didn’t see her again. I simply didn’t kill her, and no one can prove that I did.”
He talked well, and had a pleasant voice, lacking the overtone of Cockney which characterised his mother’s speaking voice. It was more like the girl’s. Modern education was beating down the barriers of accent and dialect; and modern education, added to some natural quality, gave this youth a surprising poise. There was strength of character in him, and there seemed a sense of resignation, as well as the fear which showed in his honest-looking brown eyes.
“Did you know her well?” Rollison asked.
“I’d met her at the Rose and Crown and at a club I belonged to, and she was always pestering me, but we weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean. We weren’t anything to each other, either. When we first met she asked me to buy her a drink, and, like a fool, I did. After that she kept saying that if I didn’t help her she would tell Isobel that we were having an affaire. She tried to blackmail me, in other words.”
“Did you pay blackmail?”
“No, I didn’t. I bought her a drink once or twice and gave her an odd pound to keep her quiet at the pub. I wouldn’t have worried about her talking to Isobel; Isobel would have understood.”
“Did you tell Isobel or your mother about her?”
“No, I didn’t,” answered Benning, and a note of desperation crept into his voice. “I didn’t see any point in talking for the sake of talking. I didn’t think Marjorie Fryer meant anything—she was half drunk most of the time.”
“What about the hundred pounds you’re supposed to have paid her?”
Benning said roughly: “It’s absolute nonsense. I’d got it out to pay a deposit on some furniture; it was going cheap, and my boss would have stored it free. But the money was stolen from me.”
“Did you know that some of it—”
“Not that!” Grice interrupted, sharply.
“What did you do after you left the Rose and Crown on Monday?” amended Rollison.
“I went to the pictures,” Benning answered. “My pal Joe Maxham wasn’t anywhere around, Isobel was at her art class, and I didn’t want to go to a pub in case Marjorie turned up again. For the past month she’s turned up wherever I’ve been—haunted me, almost. The pictures was the best place to be sure that she didn’t make a nuisance of herself. There was a film I liked at Leicester Square, and I went by underground to Charing Cross and walked to the Odeon. I got back home about twelve o’clock, after having a cup of coffee and a hot dog at a place in Piccadilly. Mum was in bed, so I didn’t see her.” Benning had been talking with increasing vehemence, and now he was looking at Grice, not at Rollison. “That’s the simple truth. I’ve told this officer and several others six times if I’ve told them once. They won’t believe me, but it’s gospel truth.”
Rollison found it easy to believe him.
He thought that Grice was ill-at-ease, too.
He made no promises to young Benning, but told him again that if the police had any reason at all to believe that they were wrong, they would check every item of evidence thoroughly. Then he left with Grice. In a few minutes the detective and the constable would take Benning downstairs, and two plain-clothes men would take him in a police car to Brixton, until his case came up again at the East London Police Court. The law and justice were very constant in their habits.
“Well, Bill,” Rollison said, mildly, “think he killed that girl?”
“I know the evidence says so.”
“It could be fooling you.”
“He asked for legal aid, and he’ll get it. If it’s fooling me, his counsel will find out. Rolly, we’ve all the evidence needed to convict him,” Grice insisted, “and beyond the fact that he’s a likeable youngster and you feel that he’s telling the truth, there’s nothing in his favour. I’ve met liars before who made the worst lie sound like a page out of the Bible. I don’t want to waste my time or your time, and I’ll tell you more than I should. Every time the Fryer girl saw Benning she left better off by several pounds. We checked, so that there’s no possibility of doubt. She always said she could get money from him, she owed rent and accounts in several shops, and she paid money on account soon after seeing him. What’s more, he admits drawing out that money from his Post Office Savings Account. The furniture story is plausible, that’s all. Facts are stronger than sentiment, and I’ve found the facts.”
“Ah,” said Rollison.
“Don’t start behaving as if you’d got sixth sense.”
“No,” said Rollison, apologetically. “I haven’t, Bill, and if I had you’d knock it out of me. Have you looked for any other individual who was at the same place as these two, and from whom Marjorie Fryer could have got the money?”
“Yes—up to a point.”
“What point?”
“You know as well as we do that we don’t want to pin a crime on an innocent man. He told us his story, and we checked the places he saw this girl last week. No one in any of the pubs saw any man or woman talk to Marjorie Fryer. We didn’t check any farther back, because we think it would be a waste of time. He knew the dead girl. She blackmailed him, and he paid her—and he strangled the life out of her.”
“It looks like it,” said Rollison, sadly. “Pity. Bill, you’ve been very good, and I won’t keep you any longer.”
“If you can find a weakness in the case against Benning I’ll buy you the best dinner you’ve had this year,” promised Grice.
Rollison’s eyes lit up.
“Now there’s an incentive! Can I name the place?”
“You can.”
“From this moment on I shall dwell on it,” said Rollison, and went on very gently: “Because there are times when the evidence can lie, and this is one of the times. That boy didn’t kill the girl.”
“I don’t suppose I shall ever stop you tilting at windmills,” Grice said, almost wearily. “Don’t run across our chaps too much, will you? I don’t want a private war like we’ve sometimes had before.”
“Last thing I want, too,” said Rollison, and grinned. “I’ve two fights on my hands already.”
“You mean you’re going to take on Dwight?”
“Just far enough to find out how deep his delusions go,” said Rollison. “Thanks again, Bill.”
He left the Yard a little after a quarter past seven. Parliament Square boasted three private cars, a taxi, and a motor-scooter, and no scarlet bus was in sight. A crowded sight-seeing boat came underneath one of the arches of Westminster Bridge, and the strains of accordion music floated to the Embankment. Two skiffs shot past the steamer like canoes shooting rapids. It was calm and peaceful, London was at rest – and the river drew him, as a magnet; the Thames always did, especially when he had a great deal on his mind. Now he felt that he had more than he could easily cope with. Bravado was not a wise thing. He should have been more noncommittal with Grice; now he was committed to fighting these two wars, and it was easy to see that each might prove extremely difficult.
He had seen that motorcyclist’s gun.
He had reached that snap opinion about Benning.
He crossed the wide road and reached the parapet of the Embankment, with the massive structure of the Yard buildings behind him. If Grice were still in his office, and happened to look out, he would see the Toff’s back, and would probably be deriding him silently, because he had stuck his neck out so far. Well, why not? Rollison found himself grinning, suddenly filled with a kind of zest. This would be like pulling off a double. The river had answered him, as it so often did. He watched another, smaller river sight-seeing craft heading for the pier at Westminster Bridge, and several smaller ships with great awnings making for the sweeping
spans of Waterloo Bridge. It was warmer than it had been in the middle of the afternoon, and on the other side of the river some boys were swimming and diving.
People passed behind him. Traffic passed, now and again there was the rumble of a heavy lorry, but most of the time it was light traffic: cars, cabs, motor-cycles, motor-scooters. One of the things Rollison had to do first was to find out more about that motorcyclist, and he had probably missed a trick: he should have asked Grice to show him the Rogue’s Gallery, so that he could identify the man.
It was too late.
He glanced to the left and saw a young couple, arm in arm, gazing into each other’s eyes. The boy was hatless, looked a little untidy, and about Benning’s age; but he was ugly. The girl wasn’t exactly a picture-postcard beauty, but they looked as if they could not wait to find a secluded corner.
It was a desperately difficult time for Benning and Isobel, who wanted to be together, like these two, Rollison told himself. He must see the mother on her own, then go to see some of his own friends in the East End; they would give him what help he needed.
In five minutes he had made up his mind what to do. He would telephone Jolly, tell him to give Dwight dinner and keep a snack for him when he arrived later. There were telephones at the entrance to the underground station only three minutes’ walk away.
He straightened up.
He heard a girl cry out, a kind of stifled exclamation, heard a soft pad of footsteps, and swung round towards his left. He was too late. He felt a buffet on the back of his head, and then a man approaching from the other side bent down, clasping Rollison’s legs in his right arm, and heaved him upwards. The attack was too sudden for him to do anything to save himself. He felt the looming of unconsciousness, and then the sickening sense of fear as he hurtled towards the water.