Murder: One, Two, Three Read online

  “I’m not here to talk about Tony Reedon or anyone else who might have been hurt down at Hoole,” Mallow said roughly. “I—I’ve given myself up because I’m frightened for my wife. I’ve told you people twice already, when are you going to get something done?”

  “You won’t get better results by shouting,” Roger said mildly. “Take it easy, Mr. Mallow. Every policeman in London’s on the look out for your wife, she’ll be found.” He wished he felt sure. “What frightens you about her?”

  Mallow drew at the cigarette; it burned nearly half way down its length.

  “I was going to meet her at Trafalgar Square. I don’t know how it happened, but someone else got there first, someone named Ginn. Lefty Ginn, I think the girl said. He took Daff off. The girl—the girl said something about him wanting money from me, he thinks I’ve got—I’ve got a fortune. I—I tried to follow the girl but lost her, and—”

  Mallow broke off, jumped up, clenched his fists and shook them in Roger’s face. “Why the hell don’t you try to find my wife?”

  The more excited he became, the calmer Roger had to be. And he had to get the facts right, too; had to try to see them in all their significance; and one thing, if it was a fact, was puzzling.

  “What name do you say the girl gave?”

  “Gladys. She—”

  “I mean, what man did she name?”

  “Then why the devil don’t you say what you mean?” Mallow demanded. “Ginn, Lefty Ginn.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “What did she say about him?”

  Mallow hesitated, looked about to explode again, then made himself say: “She said he’d got Daphne. Said he wanted some money from me—she called it dough. D-o-u-g-h spells dough! And—” Mallow’s lips tightened then he moistened them; and he looked truly afraid, his voice shrilled. “She said he was a killer, warned me not to—not to cross him.” He paused again, but Roger let it ride. “She said he was on his uppers, desperate, and—a killer, don’t you understand that? A killer.”

  “Yes, I understood,” Roger said flatly. “It’s true, too.”

  “What?”

  “If it’s the Lefty Ginn we know, he is a killer.”

  Mallow stared at him for a long time; his eyes burned; his fists were clenched, his arms were by his sides. Then suddenly, hopelessly, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed: “Oh, God, what have I done, what have I done?”

  Roger said, very gently: “Well, what have you done, Mallow? How did you get into all this? What happened to put your wife in danger from a man like Ginn?”

  Mallow didn’t answer, and didn’t uncover his face.

  “Until we know it all, we can’t be sure of getting results. What have you done? Why should Ginn think—?”

  Mallow lowered his hands, slowly. He looked very tired out and ill; as if he had a burning headache. His voice had lost its vigour, something seemed to have been drawn out of him.

  “Nothing I can tell you,” he said. “I know what you think, but it isn’t true. I’ve told you what happened tonight, told you everything I can to help you find Daphne.”

  They eyed each other, in a kind of duel.

  Roger was quite sure that Mallow could tell him much more; almost sure that he wouldn’t, tonight. The issue couldn’t be forced, there was no way of making the man talk if he didn’t want to. Whatever he had done, apparently he had given himself up because of the threat to his wife; perhaps he felt an awful sense of guilt towards her.

  “All right, but don’t blame us if we can’t find Ginn because of anything you’ve held back,” Roger said suddenly. “This girl Gladys—what’s she like?”

  “What the devil does that—?” Mallow began, and then he broke off. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I feel as if I’m going mad. If anything happens to my wife because of me, I—” He broke off again, licked his lips, and said: “She said her name was Gladys. She’s rather short, got long, dark hair, falls down nearly to her shoulders, brown eyes and—and, well, she’s a ripe piece. Cushiony, you know. Got too much make up on. She had a yellow sweater and a brown skirt, I didn’t notice her shoes. That’s—that’s all I can tell you.”

  Roger was already signalling to the detective officer who was taking notes.

  “Get that description out, Harris, and make sure it’s flashed to all patrol cars, all police stations, and all police boxes. Where did you lose her, Mr. Mallow?”

  “Ludgate Circus way. A couple of buses hid her from me, she might have got on to one. I don’t know. I hardly know whether I’m on my head or my heels. Get—get dizzy spells. I haven’t eaten since lunch, I—I got scared.”

  “We’ll get you a snack,” Roger promised. The sergeant went out, and the door closed behind him. “Look here, Mr. Mallow,” Roger went on, “you don’t have to say anything, but I’m here alone, so nothing you say can be used as evidence. It can be used only if there’s a witness. Hadn’t you better get it all off your chest?”

  Mallow’s eyes were glittering, as if his head ached dreadfully.

  “All I want is to make sure my wife’s all right. I haven’t got anything to say, apart from that. Except—I didn’t kill Tony Reedon. It’s crazy to think I did, he was my closest friend! I didn’t kill him, understand. I’m not a murderer.”

  His voice rose, and his lips were quivering.

  The officer came back, folding his notebook to another page. Mallow glanced at him, and then back to Roger; he’d finished the cigarette, and was looking round helplessly for an ash tray.

  “Throw it in the grate,” Roger said. “And sit down, Mr. Mallow. I’ve told you that you’re under no obligation to make a statement, but I think you’d be wise to. In any case, I must ask you certain questions, and—”

  “Why don’t you go and look for my wife?” cried Mallow. “Find her first, I’ll answer the questions afterwards. Oh, God, if anything happens to Daff I’ll kill myself.”

  Roger said stonily: “Every possible effort is being made to find her, and if there’s any need for me to join the search, I’ll go at once. Meanwhile, it’s time you answered questions. Were you in Hoole on the night of Friday, June 5th?”

  Mallow set his lips, and refused to answer.

  Fifteen minutes later, word came that a girl answering Gladys’s description had been seen near St. Paul’s; and within five minutes of that, another statement came from a policeman who had just seen the description of Daphne Mallow and the suitcase.

  “With a short man wearing a mackintosh, north of St. Paul’s,” Roger said briskly. “Better have the whole of the flattened area cordoned off, and get the men who know the district best ready to start combing it. They may have gone through to Holborn, but if they did, why were they walking?”

  He left Mallow at the Yard, on a nominal charge of having had stolen property in his keeping at his house at Hoole.

  It was nearly dark when Roger reached the ruined part of London just behind St. Paul’s. The lights of the distant main streets looked bright from here. In the distance, too, the smaller lights of cars and buses looked like a succession of fireflies moving in line. Closer at hand, police cars were clustered wherever there was an open space, men with torches were ready to start a search of the area. Roger was with a sergeant who knew the whole of the derelict area as well as he knew his own street. This was Sergeant Parker, of the uniformed branch.

  The two men who’d reported Gladys and the other couple were standing by.

  “If they all went along what used to be Kimble Lane, sir,” the sergeant said, “they’d be heading for those buildings over there.” He pointed. “See, there are two lights in the windows. Can’t think of anywhere else they’d be going, not from what used to be Kimble Lane.”

  “We’ll close round on that, then. What lies that way?”

  “Well, it’s about as bare as any part just here, sir,” the sergeant said. “Lot of walls, three or four feet high. Lot of basements, too. The ground’s like a great big honeycomb
. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve found down-and-outs kipping—I mean sleeping—there, sir. Why, there was a man and woman living there right under our noses, actually rigged up electric light from a meter next door, and running water. Always slipped in when it was dark, see, they were all right until they got too bold and started using their ‘flat’ by day.” Sergeant Parker was wondrously solemn. “Proper rabbit warren, sir. And no one much ever goes to have a look round there—except we policemen, but we can’t see through brick walls.” That wasn’t near insolence, but a stolid statement of fact. “Not far away from here we found that little girl, last year. Ugly job, that was.”

  Roger thought of the case which had sent him to Hoole, and would harass him until it was solved.

  “Yes,” he said. “If you wanted a hide out, where would you have it?”

  “Oh, over there, sir.” Without hesitation, Parker pointed towards the direction in which the wanted trio had been seen; and towards the cellar where Ginn and the girl were in hiding. “But be careful near that big wall with the red light on, sir. Dangerous, that is—scheduled to be knocked down next week.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Roger promised.

  “So he wouldn’t come,” Ginn said, “and you let him go, did you?”

  He’d said it half a dozen times, as if it was the only thing he could think of. He hadn’t done anything yet; hadn’t touched Gladys, or threatened her. Now, he stood by the box which had the candle on it, looking at Gladys, apparently oblivious of the fact that Daphne Mallow was here.

  Gladys answered as she had each time: “I couldn’t carry him, could I?”

  “You couldn’t have made him understand.”

  “Of course I made him understand! He wouldn’t play, that’s all. Who told you he’d give up that money for a dame, even if she was his wife?”

  Ginn didn’t speak.

  He glanced round at Daphne, but didn’t take much notice of her. She sat on the upright chair, close to the large packing case which served as a table. She felt stiff, her legs ached, the hard wooden seat was a kind of torture in itself. Her hair was untidy, where she’d kept poking her fingers through it. Now and again she shivered, because it was surprisingly cold down here; the cold and her nerves and her fears worked together. She hadn’t had anything to eat or to drink, and her mouth was parched. Some of the time, she felt as if she was sitting on a billowy air cushion, another time as if she was sitting on rocks as hard as those on which Tony Reedon’s body had been smashed.

  The battle, now, was between the man and this short, heavy breasted, big eyed girl with the beautiful hair. The candlelight glistened on that hair, and on the little rhine stone clip she used to fasten it back from her forehead. Obviously the girl Gladys was frightened of Ginn, but she fought both her fear and the man with a kind of scared defiance.

  Ginn hadn’t spoken for so long that Gladys moved abruptly, and said: “Maybe he’ll be glad to get rid of her!”

  Daphne winced.

  “And there’s the other thing,” Gladys went on spitefully. “He hadn’t got a dime, see. Couldn’t even pay the bus fare to the Bank—that’s where I told him to book to, not near St. Paul’s, see.” She added that with an almost pathetic attempt to be ingratiating without humbling herself. “What makes you so sure he’s got the other money and the sparklers?”

  “He’s got it all,” Ginn said. “Must have dumped it, and can’t get back to it. Don’t talk to me. Before now I’ve known where a fortune in ice was waiting, but didn’t dare to go and pick it up. He’s scared in case he’s tailed to the money, that’s all. If I get my hands on him, I’ll make him talk.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t chance it.”

  “We’ve got to get him.”

  “Just tell me how,” Gladys said, with a touch of venom. “Show me how clever you are.”

  “We’ll get him,” Ginn told her, “and we won’t have any of your lip, or I’ll smack you down.” His eyes glittered, but he didn’t strike her; and something told Daphne Mallow that the other girl’s fears had eased. Hers hadn’t, and nothing Ginn said gave her a moment’s respite from the nagging dread of what might happen next. “I’ve got to get him alive, and got to make him talk,” Ginn was saying. “The best way is to keep his wife here. If he thinks she’ll get hurt, he’ll talk all right.”

  “He wouldn’t come to see her!” Gladys almost screeched. “Can’t you get that into your thick head?”

  “We’ll find him,” Ginn said. “We’ve damned well got to find him.” He moved towards the door, but didn’t open it at first, just stood with his hands in the pockets of his mackintosh. “You look after Mallow’s wife. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, understand? She might know where he’s hiding out.”

  Daphne said hoarsely: “No, I don’t, I swear I don’t.”

  “I could find a way to make you remember,” Ginn said, with quiet menace. “Glad, go out, make sure no one’s about. I don’t want to run into any coppers.”

  There was just room for Gladys to pass. She squeezed by, but before she could open the door, Ginn grabbed at her hair and pulled her head back. Their faces were very close together.

  “And don’t feed her, understand? Don’t get soft hearted.”

  “Not after living with you,” Gladys said from the back of her throat. “I wouldn’t know how.”

  He let her go. She pulled at the heavy door, grunting with the effort, but he made no attempt to help her. When the door was open, only darkness showed; and for the first time Daphne had some idea how long she had been here. It was pitch dark; pitch. By day, there had been some grounds for daring to hope, but now – she would be here all the night.

  She might be here for the next day, for day after day after day. She wanted to scream.

  And Michael hadn’t come, Michael hadn’t tried to help, hadn’t cared.

  That was the agonising thing; not that this man was so sure that Michael had the money.

  She had almost forgotten the story she had heard in the train, Ben Norris’s unstoppable flow of words, the talk of other people in the carriage. Whatever had happened up to tonight seemed to have been cut out of her life. There was this moment, fear of Ginn, and now the torment of knowing that Michael had left her to her fate. She had tried to tell herself that he hadn’t believed Gladys, but that hadn’t really helped.

  Her mouth ached with thirst, and she felt sick with hunger. She’d only pecked at her food during the weekend, just a little three times a day had kept her going; she hadn’t had anything since twelve o’clock, not even that cup of tea. She was dizzy, too, and knew that if she stood up, she wouldn’t be able to keep her balance.

  Gladys went out.

  Ginn, hands still in his pockets, moved towards Daphne.

  It was the last thing she had expected, and it made her try to get to her feet. Doing so, she swayed. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and she saw a scarf in them. Was he going to strangle her? Panic made her heart thump. She tried to back away, but came up against the wall.

  “Keep still,” he ordered. He slipped the scarf over her head, and then tied it tightly against her lips; the knot kept her lips parted, and pressed against her teeth. “While we’re away,” he said, “you do some thinking. You’ll be okay, when we know where your husband is.” He pulled her up, grabbed her wrists, and tied them together behind her. Then he stood back. “Don’t waste your time trying to get out, you can’t.” He gripped the top of her right arm with his powerful hand, and forced her to move. “Not from where I’m going to put you,” he added, and thrust her towards the corner cupboard.

  He opened the door of the cupboard and pushed her inside.

  She could not even scream.

  He slammed the door and blackness enveloped her.

  He pulled at the door, to make sure it was closed, then moved away, blew out the candle and nipped the glowing tip, an oddly fastidious gesture which prevented the smell from the smouldering wick. Now, he went to the heavy, concealed door, and pulled it open.
From here, he could see the stretch of starlit blackness and the glow in the sky from the powerful lights at the sides and the tops of buildings.

  The door creaked; and closed.

  He heard a flurry of movement.

  “The cops are coming,” Gladys breathed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Killer On The Run

  Lefty Ginn stood still for a split second, closed and locked the door, put the loose brick back, then moved forward across the basement without its roof. He could not see over the top without standing on tiptoe, but there were some odd pieces of concrete at one spot, and he climbed on to this and looked across the waste land. At three different points – straight ahead, to the right and to the left – he could see clusters of lights. If there were more, the high wall hid them. The lights were all similar: bright, intensely white, and with short, stubby beams. He knew, as well as Gladys, that the police were searching as they converged upon this spot.

  “Up and over,” he said urgently.

  “That girl—” Gladys began.

  “Get up!”

  Ginn backed away, put his hand at Gladys’s waist, and hoisted her. She muttered something he didn’t catch. He gave her a push, to make sure that she was safely on the top, then hauled himself up and over. They stood together looking at the lights, the nearest of which were a hundred yards or so away.

  Now, they saw more.

  Several cars were gathered together at vantage points, and headlights were shining, bright near the lamps, pale a long way off; they filled most of the ruined area with light of some kind. Here and there were dark patches, the nearest between the left hand cluster of lights and the one straight ahead.

  “Creep along by the wall,” Ginn said. “Don’t run, just go quietly. Don’t make any sound. Keep going.” He made her go ahead of her, and a moment later, he said: “I’m not going to let them catch you or me—alive,” he added after a pause.

  The word “alive” hovered on the still night air.

  Sounds came from the police; and now the figures of big men showed against the diffused beams of the headlamps. The torch light seemed very bright. There was a scuffling sound, as of footsteps; noises which suggested that the police were kicking at rubble, to make sure heaps were not concealing doorways or hiding places. It would take a hundred police to cover the area properly, and there were no more than thirty here, as far as Ginn could judge.