Murder, London-New York Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Murder London - New York

  First published in 1958

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1958-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755123972 9780755123971 Print

  0755126394 9780755126392 Pdf

  0755126408 9780755126408 Kindle

  0755126416 9780755126415 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Part I

  LONDON – FIRST PHASE

  1: New Job

  ‘Handsome,’ Turnbull said, from the door of the chief inspector’s office.

  Roger West turned his head from a desk near the window.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Spare a minute?’

  ‘Half a mo’,’ Roger said, and scribbled a note on a typewritten request from the commander of the Criminal Investigation Department. There had been a time when he had dealt direct with the assistant commissioner, but changes in personnel and in rankings had altered all that.

  Roger passed four other desks on his way to the door. Turnbull was massive and rugged, ten years the junior, handsome as a lion; they were the two best-looking men at New Scotland Yard. They respected each other but were not close friends. With Turnbull, Roger West always made sure he said and did the correct thing; Turnbull looked thick-skinned but could be very touchy, especially of late, for he was having trouble at home. This was partly because of his arrogance, for his wife could not endure his continual attempts at domination. Roger’s sympathies were all with Turnbull’s wife; it was arrogance which had made Turnbull summon a senior detective, instead of coming into the office. Almost without realising it, Roger’s mood was antagonistic.

  They met just outside the door, at one end of a long passage.

  ‘There’s a girl just coming along with Naylor,’ Turnbull said. ‘Take a look at her, and tell me what you think, will you?’

  It was so often like that: he was fully justified in calling Roger. The antagonism faded into a kind of wariness.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Sister of Margaret Roy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Roger, and wariness faded, too. He glanced towards the further corner, where he could hear footsteps. He did not need telling that Turnbull wanted him to see the girl as they passed, without making it obvious. He himself was equally anxious to see her. The Yard had been looking for her for three days, and she had turned up a few hours ago, saying that she had been in the country, away from radio, television, neighbours and newspapers.

  How likely was that?

  Roger wondered whether she would be remotely like her murdered sister; whether beauty ran in the family, or was just a phenomenon. When Margaret Roy had been found dead, it was as if someone had savaged beauty for savagery’s sake, by slashing that lovely face. It had been a hideous crime. The newspapers had played it low, because somehow it had shocked the tough and the hardbitten; some said that it had shocked even the profane.

  ‘You seen her?’ Roger asked Turnbull.

  ‘Yeh.’

  The footsteps were so near now that any moment Chief Superintendent Naylor and Vanity Roy would appear. Naylor’s approach came thump, thump, thump, from a man of seventeen stone; the woman’s tap, tap-tap, as if she was having difficulty in keeping up.

  They turned the corner.

  Naylor, snuffling, heavy with cold, and in his baggy brown suit, dwarfed the girl. She hardly came to his shoulder, and yet held the attention in such a way that it would be easy to forget Naylor except as a hazy background. Many different adjectives would be used about the girl, elfin, fragile, fey among them; and of course she would be called a pocket Venus. But in spite of her heart-shaped face and the unreal perfection of her skin, brushed as with a bloom of gold, it was her mass of back shiny hair, and the way she walked, that caught and held the attention.

  Roger and Turnbull went towards the couple.

  The sister of Margaret Roy was used to being looked at, so their gaze wouldn’t surprise her at all. She was used to repulsing any kind of come-hither look, too. Chin high, hair glinting even in the dull passage, she would have passed them without a glance had Naylor not said in his cold-thickened voice: ‘Oh, Chief Inspector.’

  The formality was for the girl’s benefit.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Have you heard how Sergeant Creel is?’

  Naylor wasn’t interested in Sergeant Creel, who was off duty following an accident met while stopping smash-and-grab thieves from escaping; he was giving Roger a chance to study the girl.

  ‘Yes, sir, I had a message this morning. He’s up and about, and should be on duty again at the end of the next week.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Naylor snuffled.

  The girl had stared straight ahead, as if she wanted to thrust these two men into the shadow of her beauty, but that wasn’t so easy. It was partly pretended, too, for she glanced at Roger from under those sweeping black eyelashes, and revealed the strange brilliance of her own pearl-grey eyes. She looked away again, as Naylor led her on, while Roger and Turnbull went to the corner and turned round it before Turnbull asked: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘She’s frightened out of her wits.’

  ‘You think so, too,’ said Turnbull with satisfaction, which was almost smug. ‘I said so to Naylor, and he as good as told me that I was dreaming it up. But he’s not a bad old so-and-so; he agreed to let you h
ave a look at her.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Yours was the first name that came to my mind,’ said Turnbull, half-jeering; he simply couldn’t help himself. ‘So far, all she’s said is that she didn’t know that her sister was frightened, didn’t know of any enemies, troubles, money worries, discarded or vindictive lovers and/or vices which might explain the murder. She says she didn’t know Maggie was dead until she read a report in the Morning Globe which she bought on her way from Dorset this morning. She adds that she didn’t even wait to have lunch, she came straight here in sisterly grief and dismay.’ Turnbull stopped at the head of a flight of stairs. ‘Talking of lunch, how about a cuppa?’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t stay long,’ Roger said. They clumped down the stairs. ‘Where’s Naylor taking her?’

  ‘He’s seeing her to the front hall, and then he’ll send her to her flat in a cab. He’s agreed to have her followed for a day or so, anyhow. If all the big shots were as good as Naylor this wouldn’t be such a bad doghouse. Ought to be in bed with that cold of his. You heard the latest rumour about you yourself?’

  ‘I’m always the last to hear,’ Roger said dryly.

  ‘That superintendency is in the bag.’

  Roger was surprised into a laugh.

  ‘I’ve heard that one so often and for so many years, it’s like an echo. I don’t believe it any more.’

  They reached the canteen, and Turnbull looked at him almost oddly before saying: ‘Calling me a liar?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Roger said, and saw anger flare up into the other’s eyes. Turnbull was far too touchy to do his best work, but he controlled himself now.

  ‘We’ll see who’s the fool,’ he said, and went up to the counter. ‘Two teas and a couple of doughnuts with extra jam. Make it slippy.’

  There was a kind of swashbuckling air about him, which many people at the Yard had come to like; the half-jeering tone, the grin on his face, the boldness of his approach to all and sundry, appealed to most Yard men, although there had been a day when they had resented it. Roger wondered how much he himself was to blame for the present tensions. His wife knew Turnbull’s wife well, and Turnbull probably realised that he, Roger, knew about the troubles at home.

  Another chief inspector arrived and started to talk about dead Maggie and living Vanity Roy, marvelling: ‘Why would anyone want to christen her Vanity?’

  ‘Ma or Pa probably had a crush on Thackeray,’ Turnbull said, and then an elderly constable came in, one of the messengers, and made a beeline for Roger. ‘The Commander wants to see you, Mr West, he says will you drop everything and hurry?’

  The tea was being thrust into Roger’s hand.

  ‘Coming,’ he said, and sipped. It was very hot, and he put it down, while the man at the counter splashed in more milk. ‘Thanks,’ said Roger, and within half a minute he was out of the canteen.

  ‘The way that man moves,’ marvelled the other CI. ‘You’d think he lived for his work, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘And he does,’ said Turnbull, without any sign of a jeer. ‘Every time I see Handsome West he teaches me something, even if I don’t want it. This time he’s teaching me how to eat two doughnuts when I only wanted one.’ He picked up the plate.

  ‘Queer thing about his promotion,’ the CI remarked. ‘He was on the list years ago. I know he blotted his copybook when old Jay was assistant commissioner, but you wouldn’t think the new chap or Hardy would hold it against him, would you?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ Turnbull said, ‘he’s had it too easy.’

  By that time, Roger was approaching the commander’s office, and slackening speed a little. The years and his own enthusiasm had taught him that in some jobs even minutes counted; the commander might want him for one of these. Speculation wouldn’t help much, but the only case vivid in his thoughts was that of the Margaret Roy murder. Except for that, crime had been humdrum recently; it often was in midsummer.

  He tapped at the door, and Commander Hardy himself called: ‘Come in.’ It was a big office, with two desks; Hardy was at one and his aide, Chief Inspector Bill Sloan, an old crony of Roger’s, was on the telephone. Hardy was lean, wiry, tall, a military type who had worked his way up from the uniformed branch by sheer ability, but he was an administrator as much as a detective. Sloan didn’t greatly like his present job because it kept him indoors; but it also helped to swell his pay packet, and he had a growing family. Sloan waved a hand, and there was a look in his eyes which Roger knew well: he was bursting with news.

  ‘Hallo, Handsome,’ Hardy said. ‘You’re not over busy at the moment, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, Dick Naylor’s got a filthy cold and he keeps getting sneezing bouts, so he’s going off duty. I want you to take over the Roy investigation.’

  Eagerness showed in Roger’s eyes, and Hardy grinned.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d complain,’ he said. ‘Go right along and talk to Naylor, will you, and try not to catch his stinker. We’ll have half the Yard down with summer flu if we’re not careful. Turnbull’s been working with him, he’ll be able to brief you.’

  ‘Any special angle you want me to follow?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Not yet. Turnbull says he thinks that the sister is lying, because she’s scared. Get in touch with the Dorset people, they’ll help all they can. Don’t let Turnbull start ordering them about, though, or telling them how bad provincial coppers are.’ Hardy knew Turnbull’s great weakness; of annoying people he was dealing with for the first time. ‘Pass everything else on, as necessary, and let me know what you think when you’ve had a good look at the job.’

  ‘Right,’ said Roger. ‘Thanks.’

  Sloan was taking down notes, still with the telephone at one ear, still looking as if he were bursting with news. Probably that meant he wished he could have told Roger of this himself: but he had no chance.

  Roger hurried out.

  It was Turnbull’s remark about the superintendency which made him reflect wryly that he’d been given another superintendent’s job without having the rank. He was used to that. Some of his friends were sore, his wife was sore, his two sons thought it the height of unfairness and ingratitude, but he himself just took it for granted that when he had defied an assistant commissioner on an investigation, he had marked himself as a rebel: he’d asked for it and got it.

  To get to Naylor’s office, he had to pass his own, so he went in to check if anything new had come in, needing immediate action. There were a few memos and a sealed note, the kind that came from the secretary’s office about holidays, social events, hours of duty and the divers matters which were as relevant to the Yard as to a big business. Eddie Day, the Yard’s expert on forgery, another man who had been passed over for promotion, and who would retire soon with a CI’s pay, looked up from his desk. In recent months, Eddie had become almost sour.

  ‘What are you looking so pleased wiv’ yourself about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Hardy’s given me the Roy job.’

  ‘That’s an ‘eadache, that is,’ Eddie observed, with a kind of melancholy satisfaction. ‘You’ll come a cropper over that one, ‘Andsome. I can smell ‘em. That’s trouble, that is. Killer without a motive. I don’t envy you.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’ Roger scribbled notes on the memos. ‘Be a pal, Eddie, and get one of the sergeants to come in and look after these oddments. Might cast an eye over them yourself if you’ve time.’ He picked up the sealed envelope, and his telephone bell rang. With a curiously easy yet swift movement he picked the instrument up; he did everything with a kind of rhythmic briskness, and as he looked out of the window into the courtyard below, his expression was eager, and his film star handsomeness quite remarkable. His fair hair was a little ruffled; almost boyish.

  ‘West here.’

  ‘It’s Detective Officer Anderson, sir. I wanted to report to Mr Naylor, but he’s not in his office, and I’m told you’re handling the Roy case.’

  That was quick.

/>   ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I was detailed to follow Miss Vanity Roy, sir, in a taxi. I regret to report that I’ve lost her. Mr Naylor said if she should give me the slip he wanted to know at once.’

  ‘Did she give you the slip, or did you fall down on the job?’ Roger was crisp.

  ‘I think she meant to evade me, sir,’ answered Anderson very carefully, ‘but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Roger. ‘All right, thanks. Come and see me as soon as you’re back, will you?’ He replaced the receiver and dropped the envelope on the desk, while Eddie Day watched him. Roger let his thoughts jostle one another. He could refer to Hardy and ask if a call ought to be sent out for Vanity Roy, or he could put one out without asking. That was the trouble with his rank; a superintendent had all the necessary authority, but a CI with hopes for promotion had to watch the regulations. He lifted the telephone and asked for Hardy.

  ‘He’s not in his office, sir, and Mr Sloan’s on the telephone,’ the operator told him.

  ‘Then give me Information,’ Roger said, and was put through at once. ‘That you, Fred?… We’ve lost Vanity Roy, and I’d like to find out where she is as soon as I can, don’t want any more slashing jobs. Don’t pick her up, but ask all Divisions to keep an eye open for her, will you?’

  ‘Right,’ said the Information Room CI. ‘How’s it feel, Handsome?’

  ‘I feel all right,’ Roger said. He wasn’t really thinking of the question, he was wondering whether it would be wise to see Turnbull before Naylor, see them both together, or see Naylor first.

  ‘Well, you’re pretty calm about it,’ the CI said. ‘I—I’ll be seeing you, Hardy’s just poked his nose in.’

  Roger put the receiver down.

  The years had taught him to disregard the irrelevant and to concentrate on the essentials – and now the essential was the Roy case. He had a mental picture of that perfect little beauty, with her black hair, peach-bloom skin and pearl-grey eyes; he had never seen anyone with eyes quite like it. And he had another picture, of her sister, dead, with her face slashed.