Murder: One, Two, Three Read online

  To get through the line of approaching men, he had a hundred yards to travel. The gap between the two groups was slowly getting narrower, but the police weren’t moving quickly; they were going slowly and deliberately, making sure that they missed nothing.

  The wall still gave Ginn and the girl a little cover.

  Gladys kicked against a stone, and stumbled; only a little noise came, but to them it sounded loud. She felt her arm grabbed, and Ginn shook her savagely.

  “Keep quiet!” he hissed.

  She looked round at him, and for the first time saw that he had a knife in his hand.

  There were, in fact, thirty four policemen, including Roger West, coming across the ruins.

  Roger knew that to comb the waste land thoroughly, at least twice as many were needed, but provided Ginn didn’t discover what was happening, thirty four should be enough. The honeycomb of little basements and cellars made the going difficult. Here and there, police had to walk along narrow brick walls, careful not to slip, in order to cross a basement and make sure that no one was hiding there. Every door was closely examined, to see whether it had been opened lately or not; hinges thick with rust were put under the glare of torches, for any traces of oil.

  They came across piles of rubbish, cycle tyres, a rusty kettle, old shoes, some old clothes; the carcases of birds; the skeleton of a dog which had crawled here to die.

  Roger was in the middle group.

  He was in the lead, and assessing the danger spots. He could see two places where anyone who meant to try to get away would make the attempt; one on his right, one on his left. Sergeant Parker had told him what the terrain was like there – very broken and battered, the damage so great that even the walls between the cellars and basements had been broken down; it was really like one huge hole in the ground, divided by partly ruined walls. That was a danger spot. Roger went towards it, carrying a torch, watching the dark shadows cast by men, bricks, walls, door frames; everything that was left after the long dead holocaust.

  The scuffling sounds seemed very loud. Traffic, a long way off, made only a background hum. A man near by breathed with a Wortleberry rumble. A Yard man lit a cigarette; there wasn’t any point in saying he shouldn’t; they could be seen a mile off, as it was.

  Roger headed for that dark spot. The red light which seemed to be in mid air, marking the dangerous wall, was some way to its left.

  It was so placed that car headlights couldn’t reach it, and there wasn’t time to bring mobile searchlights; by the time wires and cables were rigged, the chance would be gone.

  Sergeant Parker came towards him as he reached the edge of the huge hole.

  “Very nasty and treacherous here, sir. If you’re going down, I’d better lend you a hand.”

  “Right, thanks. What’s the lay out?”

  “Loose bricks and stuff all over the place, and some big holes—we had a chase over here five months ago, might have been six; man went down a pot hole, and broke his leg in three places.”

  “Bad luck,” Roger said absently. “I’ll get down, and lend you a hand.”

  He went down, dropped easily on to the floor of a cellar which had only the one wall, and then gave the uniformed sergeant a hand. By then, he was beginning to feel heavy hearted, more than ever fearful for the girl whom he should have followed. He remembered seeing her as she had entered the platform at Hoole, moving with easy freedom, smartly dressed, wholesome. “Nice”, Janet had said; and just about as far removed from Ginn as any girl could be. She might know that her husband was a murderer, she might be ready and eager to help him escape the consequences, but that didn’t make her bad; most people would give her full marks for it.

  It was remote from the rest of the men, down here; a kind of catacomb open to the night sky.

  “Gap in the wall over there, sir.” Parker shone his torch, and proved to be right. “Very loose rubble about here, too, you could easily rick your ankle.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Roger picked his way across the rubble strewn ground, climbed through the hole in the wall, and shone his torch about the next cellar. The walls of this were broken, too. He saw a shadow move.

  He hissed: “Stop!”

  The two men stood with thumping hearts, looking at the spot where the shadow had moved. Imagination? A rat, a cat, a dog? There was no sound and no other movement to attract their attention, and they went on again. It was almost impossible to move without making a noise here, because of so much loose rubble; but if that was true of them, it was true of anyone else who might be there.

  It was very dark, outside the beams of their torches. Roger’s struck part of a wall, and then, as he moved it slowly, fell away into a hole; the beam was lost before it reached another wall.

  Parker said: “Better get another couple of chaps, sir, hadn’t we?”

  “Be a good idea. I—hush!”

  He heard a sound, as of someone kicking against loose bricks; another, like a scuffle. He could hear his own heart thumping, and see Parker’s torch quivering, as they stared through the distant hole.

  Then he heard a different sound; a squeal, like a rabbit before it was killed; and another, softer movement in the rubble.

  “Send a signal for help,” he whispered to the sergeant. “Flash an SOS. Then go round the far side.”

  “Right, sir,” breathed Parker.

  He flashed his torch, then began to move – and he went too quickly. Roger heard a gasp, a fall, a rumble of falling bricks. As it quietened, he listened intently, but heard only the sound of Sergeant Parker trying to get up.

  “All right, Parker?”

  “Twisted—twisted my knee,” Parker called back huskily. “Can’t—can’t move, sir.”

  “Keep still, then,” Roger called softly.

  Ginn would know he was on his own now, but he didn’t think much about that. He couldn’t get the sound of that squeal out of his mind; it might be a stifled scream, of a woman; of Daphne Mallow. He found himself clenching his teeth: Parker didn’t want to stay, but an order was an order. The mistake had been to come here with only one man; but they’d had the whole area to cover.

  He crept across the ground, towards the hole in the wall. He trod on tiny stones and on pieces of crumbling cement which gave way beneath him. He reached the hole. If he judged the sounds right, someone was very close to him; and could see the beam of his torch. He moved again, very cautiously, wedging the torch down in a hole in a heap of bricks, keeping it waist high. It covered the big hole, and part of the empty cellar beyond it. Then he crept to the far side of the hole, and stood quite still.

  There it was: the sound of breathing.

  Roger could see the top of the wall, solid just here, against the bright pin points of the stars. He stretched up his hands, clutched the top, and began to haul himself up. His left elbow hurt. If he made too much noise, he might bring trouble upon himself swiftly and dangerously; but he hoisted himself high, until his head was on a level with the top of the wall; and next moment, just above it.

  If anyone was there, and were to glance this way, Roger’s head would show against the glow in the sky.

  The only sound was that breathing: his and one other’s, as far as he could judge, just one. He made a greater effort and, elbows bent and strain on his arms and shoulders almost unbearable, looked over the wall and down. The torchlight shone, bright and clear.

  He saw movement!

  A man darted across the hole, to get from one side to the other, and nearer freedom; just a man, on his own. His face showed for a split second, as a pale, blurred shape. He was looking towards the torch and the hole, not towards Roger. The eyes glinted as the light caught them.

  The light glinted on his knife, too.

  He was alone; and it was a hundred to one that it was Ginn; Roger thought of him as Ginn – the ruthless, heartless killer.

  Roger hauled himself up to the top of the wall, and prepared to swing over. If the man got away, he would probably lose himse
lf in the labyrinthine streets of London; east, west, north, or south. He had to be caught now. He was moving fast, taking his chance, not caring so much about the noise he made.

  Roger poised for a moment on the wall.

  Ginn glanced up.

  He saw Roger, and checked his movement, then spun round. He stood with the knife poised, almost at shoulder height, as if he would fling it like a javelin. Both were utterly still, Roger crouching and ready to leap down, offering Ginn a large, close target for the sharp blade of his knife. There wasn’t time to call out, there would be no time for others to get here.

  Roger said: “Drop that knife.”

  Ginn didn’t move.

  It was going to be a fight, at best – if he could avoid the knife, or serious injury, it would be hand-to-hand, vicious and deadly.

  They were poised only for a second; it seemed to be for an age. Not far off, whistles shrilled out and men shouted; Parker was probably still flashing his SOS. But that was in another world, a long way off.

  Ginn flung his arm, and the knife blade glinted. Roger ducked. There was no sound of a flying knife, no clatter; it had been a feint. It worked, for it put Roger off his balance; now, he had to go down. He leapt, desperately. Ginn was standing and crouching, bracing himself with the knife held for a sweeping blow upwards into Roger’s stomach. Without seeing the blade, Roger guessed what the man would try to do.

  He threw himself a little to the right, the direction in which Ginn had been going.

  He felt a sharp pain in his left arm, then hit the ground, and rolled over. He was up in a trice, grabbing at Ginn, who moved with the speed of a fox. Roger missed, then grabbed again while getting to his feet. The light shone on the man who was moving fast towards the distant darkness. Roger got to his feet and bellowed: “Get him! There he goes!”

  It didn’t stop Ginn, but it made him swing round. He flung the knife. Roger saw it flicker as it left his hand; this was no feint. He ducked. The knife flew high, but dodging it lost him precious seconds; when he straightened up Ginn was out of the range of the light; but his footsteps were clear, and he went swiftly, as if he knew every inch of the waste land.

  “This way!” Roger roared. “This—”

  He kicked against a brick, and pitched forward. As he fell, he turned towards his right shoulder, to save the left elbow from getting another knock; and as he fell, he knew that he had let the man get away. He hit the ground, and rolled over. In spite of the precautions, he banged his elbow; it was hard not to cry out in pain, which slowed him down. When he got up, he staggered, and was dazed. He could hear Ginn a good way off, and could also hear other sounds, of men running, whistles shrilling. Some of the police were heading this way, but they wouldn’t be in time.

  Would they?

  Roger dared to hope, as he stood up, shaking his head to try to free himself from pain. He turned slowly towards the torch which lodged in the wall.

  He was out of the hunt, and he’d lost Ginn – as he was losing everyone today. He felt sick, partly with pain, as much with mortification. He retrieved the torch and stood with it for a moment, while men hailed him; some had headed for the light of his torch.

  He remembered that little rabbit’s squeal, and he thought of Daphne Mallow. If he should find her body, if he should find her dead with a knife wound—

  He swung the torch round. Its beam fell on something yellow, and he remembered Mallow’s description of Gladys’s jumper. He moved forward, all other thought driven away. The light shone on the girl’s black hair, and made it shine, on her legs, her skirt, her arms – and on her back. There, he saw a dark patch on the bright yellow of the jumper, just about the position of the heart.

  A moment later, Roger was kneeling by Gladys Domwell’s side; and the wet of blood was on his fingers. He had to pull down the top of her gloves to feel her pulse, a soft, fabric glove; had she made it herself, with much pride?

  The man she had loved and lived with had done this.

  Her pulse was still, although when Roger shone the torch into her face, something of her boldness showed; so did something of the great vitality which she had possessed, and which Ginn had cut down as a farmer would cut corn.

  But where was Daphne Mallow?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Search

  “You ought to lay off a bit, Handsome,” the police surgeon said. “That cut in your arm’s nothing, but you look all in, and you sound as if you’re trying to reach the moon. These chaps can search for the woman just as well as you can. You want a clear head in the morning.”

  Roger said: “I know, that’s the common sense of it. Only I’m not in a common sense mood tonight.” He lit a cigarette as he finished, and looked towards the torch beams, which were now like glow worms which moved all the time. “If he’ll do that to one, he won’t hesitate to do it to another. That girl was working for him.”

  “Nothing you can do about her,” the police surgeon reasoned. “I wonder what makes ’em team up with devils like Ginn?”

  Roger didn’t answer.

  He watched as two ambulance men, who had made their way precariously over walls, on walls, and over rubble, put Gladys on a stretcher. Her face and body was covered with a drab, off white sheet. The men lifted the stretcher, and with police to help and to guide them, started to move away. Others were already busy at the spot where she had died, going through all the routine. Photographs, measurements, footprints, finger prints – they would seek them all, with as much thoroughness as they would if they had no idea who had killed her. When Ginn was caught, the case against him would have to be proved with every item of evidence, every shred of proof. And a lawyer, probably one paid for by the State, would try to keep him from the hangman, would fight for his life as if he deserved to live. It wasn’t probable that Ginn had been here; just a certainty.

  It was half an hour since he had escaped.

  There was no trace of him, and little chance of finding him among the waste land and the rubble. The search would have to begin all over again; and with it, the search for Daphne Mallow.

  Reinforcements were on the way from the Yard and from the Divisions, but although they would work through the night, if needs be, it would be wise to expect nothing; until the morning, at least, they weren’t likely to find clues.

  Pessimism? Presentiment?

  “Well, I’m off,” the police surgeon said. “Got a whisky flask with you?”

  “Left it in my desk,” Roger told him.

  “Take mine,” the doctor said. “And if you lose or break that flask, I’ll set my wife on you!”

  He thrust a flask into Roger’s hand, then turned to follow the ambulance men.

  Gratefully, Roger took a swig of whisky, worked it round his mouth, and then swallowed. He put the flask into his hip pocket, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. On the instant, he pictured Janet and Richard, and in spite of himself he grinned; even chuckled. Richard’s sheepish air, and the way he had ducked out of the room would help to wipe out a lot of ugly pictures on his mind.

  Roger squared his shoulders, and climbed out of the pit, without looking at the painstaking men who were busy with their seemingly pointless work. Now, the whole stretch of land was pinpointed with lights, which moved constantly; a dozen cars were shining their headlamps across the rubble. The pessimistic feeling of uselessness had gone; thought of Richard and Janet had cheered him up. He was a copper, wasn’t he? A copper’s job took him into the ugliness and the brutality of life; if the man in the street knew everything, he’d take a pretty jaundiced view of the world. No one ever would know everything. No one would even know what it was like to be a C.I.D. man who was ready to blame himself for one girl’s death and another’s disappearance.

  Yet the police surgeon had something.

  There was nothing that others couldn’t do: it was a case of searching, here and throughout London, for some sign of Daphne Mallow or of Ginn. Tomorrow might demand a lot of reserves of strength and logic which
he wouldn’t have if he tired himself out. He was lucky he hadn’t damaged himself badly. Sergeant Parker had gone off in a police car, with a badly wrenched knee – an old trouble which the fall had re-awakened. He, Roger, might have been out of action; or dead.

  He heard a hail.

  “That Mr. West, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Message for you, sir.”

  “Thanks. Coming!”

  He quickened his step, able to walk without the light of the torch now that he was nearer the group of cars. The headlamps turned the darkness of desolation into a spurious brightness. The one with the longest range caught Roger full in the face, when he made a slight detour to avoid a wall. It cast a fantastically long shadow across the ruins, and the tip of the shadow of his head fell a few feet away from the doorway which looked like solid brick, faintly red from the danger sign.

  The policeman nearest to Daphne Mallow, at that moment, was Roger West.

  He drew farther away.

  “This car, sir,” a man called out. He was one of two on duty by the cars, uniformed, deep voiced. He touched the peak of his hat. “Mr. Cortland, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  Roger slid into the seat next to the driver and picked up the radio telephone. The time when a message by walkie talkie was both novel and urgent had gone; this might be about anything.

  “West speaking.”

  “’Bout time,” Cortland said, but he wasn’t serious about that. “Any luck with Mallow’s wife?”

  Sharply, Roger said: “No.”

  “Pity,” Cortland said. “We’ve got Mallow looking like death warmed up, and we’ve had a nasty message from Ginn.”

  Roger began: “You’ve had—” and broke off.

  “That’s right. He phoned the GK Station. Very simple.” Cortland didn’t mean to be tantalising, he was just being himself. “He said that if we don’t let Mallow go, he’ll kill his wife. Know who Gladys Domwell is?” Cortland asked, with a kind of resentful insistence.