Murder: One, Two, Three Read online

  She lifted the telephone, slowly.

  “This is—Mrs. Mallow.”

  A girl’s voice came, clear and impersonal.

  “Is that Hoole 1254?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on, please, I have a long distance call for you.”

  The girl went away, and the line seemed to go dead; but nothing else was silent. Daphne’s heart began that heavy, wild pounding, it was like the continual thudding of a dynamo inside her.

  A long distance call.

  Michael? Could it be?

  Please, God, let it be Michael.

  “Are you there, caller?” the impersonal voice said again. “Press button A, please, you’re through.”

  “Please God—”

  “Daff,” said Michael, in a wonderful moment of time, “Daff, are you there? It’s me, Mike. Are you there?”

  Chapter Seven

  Follow My Lady

  Daphne heard his voice, knew that she had to answer, yet couldn’t find words. She was choked, as if by some physical grip on her throat. But it wasn’t physical; it was the suffocating hold of her nerves. She tried to speak, but could only make her lips quiver.

  It did not last for long, but in it, Michael said hoarsely: “Daff, is that you? Daff!”

  Because she was so sensitive to fear, she recognised it in his voice; there was something in the way he kept it low, in its hoarse urgency, which told her so.

  “Yes,” she managed to say in a strangled voice. “Mike, where are—?”

  “I mustn’t stay a minute,” Michael said. “Have—have you been questioned?”

  “I—yes,” she said chokily.

  “Are they still there?”

  “Not—not in the house,” she managed to say. “There’s one outside, he—” She broke off. “Oh, Mike!” All her despair was in that cry.

  “Listen to what I say, carefully,” Michael urged. “I must have some money. Get as much as you can, and bring it to London tonight. I must have it tonight. I—I’ve got to go away. How much—how much do you think you can get?”

  His voice, coming out of the earpiece, was saying these frightening things, and was as hoarse as if he hadn’t had anything to drink for days; the kind of hoarseness that only comes from a parched throat.

  “Mike, what happened? Tell—”

  “How much can you get?” he screeched: and then swiftly, cringingly, went on: “I’ll tell you everything when you get here, but I didn’t do it, Daff. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Did you know—?” she began.

  “Don’t keep arguing! How much can you bring?”

  The answer came quite suddenly. She had that money behind the sugar tin, and she’d counted it twice; there were fifty one pounds. She had another ten or so, upstairs; she always kept a little reserve. She could cash a cheque at the Old Ship hotel, where she knew the manager, or one of her shops, if they weren’t closed.

  “About a hundred pounds,” she said.

  He seemed to gasp.

  “A hundred? Wonderful, Daff. Listen, you know your passport? Bring it, will you? Never mind mine, mine won’t be any good, but yours hasn’t been altered since we were married, has it?”

  “No.”

  “Bring it. Catch the six thirty. Go straight to Trafalgar Square, and wait by the lion opposite the National Gallery.” Now his words came very quickly, almost glibly, and he wasn’t so hoarse. “Tell you everything when you get here.”

  “Mike!” she cried. “Mr. Netherby—”

  “Oh, to hell with Netherby!”

  He rang off.

  She couldn’t believe it, but kept the receiver to her ear, and kept calling his name; loudly at first, then more quietly, then in a forlorn little whisper as she lowered the receiver slowly. She turned away. She forgot the tea, the couch, and her weakness. She remembered one thing he had said, and clung to it: “I didn’t do it, Daff. I swear I didn’t.” But whatever he had or had not done, he was frightened; and was planning to flee the country.

  Her clear, direct mind made a ruthless comment: that didn’t sound like a man who’d committed no crime.

  She went into the kitchen. The clock, in the shape of a frying pan of brightly polished steel hanging over the electric cooker, told her that it was nearly half past five. She had less than forty minutes in which to get ready, because it was a quarter of an hour’s drive to the station. She would need a taxi, too. She would have to take some of her clothes and some of his. And the money.

  There wouldn’t be time to cash a cheque.

  That made her heart drop; she’d promised him a hundred pounds, and he’d been delighted; in fact, it wouldn’t be much more than sixty. Somehow, she felt that she had let him down. It nagged at her. Only the need to pack some things into a suitcase, to telephone for a taxi, to get everything else done, stopped her from brooding. She thought of the detective, Bradding, and the fact that he had gone; thank heavens he wasn’t still watching.

  She telephoned for a taxi; an elderly owner driver who served this part of Hoole was free. Then she had a brainwave.

  “Mr. Micklem!” She shouted the name, fearing he’d gone.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Micklem, I have to go to London in a hurry, and it’s too late for the banks. I wonder if you could cash me a—a rather substantial cheque?”

  He hesitated. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked him; anything that ate up time was a bad thing. She wanted to bang the receiver down, but had to wait for his deliberate reply.

  “Well, I don’t know about substantial,” he said, “I don’t reckon to keep much in the house, ma’am. I could manage fifteen pounds, if that’s any good.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! Thank you so much. Don’t be late, will you, I must catch the train.” She rang off.

  By temperament she was calm, and by habit, tidy. And the crisis, added to the stimulus of having heard from Michael, cleared her mind. She knew that she wasn’t feeling normal, that she might suddenly break down, as after a sleepless night; but for the moment she was right on top of everything. Her mind worked with great precision and clarity. By the time she reached their bedroom, which overlooked the front garden, she knew exactly what clothes she would take for them both; what case to use; what to say to Micklem. Her one fear was that she might be watched, but the tall man with that falsely friendly face had gone. Twice she looked out of the window, and saw no one.

  What about the milk, newspapers, postman?

  Micklem would stop the milk and newspapers for her, and the post could wait here. She wasn’t likely to be away for very long. That thought conflicted with talk of leaving the country. The first moment she hesitated in that swift succession of incidents was when she opened the tin box where they kept their insurance policies, Post Office Savings Book, a little loose money, chequebooks, and the passports. She hesitated only for a moment before putting the Savings Book, chequebook, and her passport in her bag. She closed it with a snap. The pound notes were already there, except those from the housekeeping which she’d put under the paper which lined a dresser drawer.

  At six o’clock she was putting on her hat. It wasn’t likely to be cold, but she decided to take a heavy sweater, and one for Michael; he only took a raincoat round with him in the summer. She did all this without any thought of finality; without seriously thinking that she would be leaving the country, in flight. She was vague about everything that would happen once she got to London and saw Mike: that was the important thing.

  If only she wasn’t followed!

  Micklem arrived in his antiquated black Austin, at five past six. Daphne was ready, with the case already in the hall. With his slow, deliberate courtesy, Micklem lifted his peaked cap off his bald head, wished her good evening, hoped that bad news was not taking her away so hurriedly. His old eyes, watery and grave, seemed to regard her with close attention.

  She wished they hadn’t.

  She sat back in the comfortable old car as it rattled and squeaked over the bumps and the
pot holes, looking right and left for the tall detective.

  The only man she saw was one in a boiler suit, working at a telegraph fuse box in the road. He’d dug a biggish hole, and when the taxi passed, straightened up to wipe his forehead with a brawny forearm. Then he squatted down by the hole again, and went on with his work, apparently not interested in Daphne.

  Roger West was at the telephone in the big office, alone for the first time that afternoon. He held on for a call, not yet knowing who was making it. It had just turned six, and the office caught the evening sun. His coat was off, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose; he felt as much at home as if he were in his own office. His one regret was that he had to telephone his wife, and tell her that he wouldn’t be home. After fifteen years of marriage, she would still be acutely disappointed.

  A man spoke: “Chief Inspector West?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Osborn here, sir, the man who’s been watching Mrs. Mallow’s place. Thought you ought to know that the taxi’s just called there, and the driver’s walking back to his cab carrying a suitcase.”

  West said: “Nice work, thanks. What’s the cab make and number?”

  Osborn told him.

  “Thanks again,” West said, and rang off.

  He had been told about Daphne Mallow’s talk with Micklem, but the call from her husband had come just too soon for the man listening at the telephone.

  Wortleberry came in. He listened, his dull eyes brightened, his small hands moved as he picked up a telephone and a pencil at the same time.

  “Old black Austin, OK42M, Ted Micklem’s usual cab, ta.” He spoke into the telephone, almost in the same breath. “Have someone nip over to the station, Perce, if Ted Micklem’s cab comes in with a passenger, ring me at once.” He rang off; and not for the first time, surprised West with the speed with which he could move; he didn’t look a hustler, and now it seemed as if he was making quite sure that he wasn’t outpaced. “That confirms that she’s catching the six thirty.”

  “To London?”

  “Yes, Victoria.”

  “Any stops on the way?”

  “Horsham, Guildford.”

  “Pity,” said West, “that means someone ought to be on the train after her, it’s no use having the train met. I ought to clear up a few oddments at my desk, and if there’s a London end to this, my chaps’ll have to be alerted. Will it upset your plans if I go to London, and come down again in the morning?”

  Wortleberry snuffled and smiled.

  “I was going to tell my wife to expect a visitor to supper, that’s all. ‘Nother time. So she’s really going to join him,” he added, and obviously he was thinking profoundly about Mallow’s wife. “Can’t blame her, I suppose. Look, I’d better come over with you, we can clear up the oddments on the way.”

  “Good idea,” said West.

  They hurried downstairs.

  “Station’s only five minutes’ walk,” Wortleberry said, “we should be there before the lady. I’ve just come from Dr. Samson, who did the autopsy, and he had Reedon’s dentist there for a look at the teeth. No doubt the body we took out of the sea is Reedon’s. I knew I wasn’t wrong about that nick in the ear,” Wortleberry added, with deep satisfaction. “So that’s that. We’ve got nothing new on the other chap, though. Clothes off the peg at Burtley’s, shoes from Wilson’s, underwear and shirt all what you’d expect, and nothing much in his wallet. Coupla pounds. But his dabs are on the way to the Yard now, and a description, measurement, weight, and everything. If you know him up there, it might help a lot.”

  “I’ll ring you tonight,” West promised.

  “Ta. Like to know,” Wortleberry added. “He’s not a local chap, anyway, that’s one of the reasons why I’m glad you’re on the job. I’ll tell you what it looks like to me,” added the local man, as they walked along crowded pavements across the one wide street in Hoole; the High Street at the Market Place. He lumbered along, and somehow no one got in his way. Somewhere not far off, a train hooted and whistled. People were queueing in hundreds for the long, single decker buses which served the outlying parts of the town and countryside. The day was still and warm, and the clinging smell of petrol was more noticeable to West than it had been all day; thick and offensive, too. “It looks like this,” the local detective went on, guiding West towards a zebra crossing. “Over there. Anthony Reedon did a big job some time ago, and came to live here like a gentleman. Retired, sort of. This chap we found dead at the cottage knew about it, p’raps he didn’t think he’d had a big enough cut, and came along and dug the cache out. Michael Mallow was in it with the second fellow, and they had a row.”

  They were across the road; fewer people were on the other side. The train whistled again, and there was a sudden hiss of escaping steam.

  “Something like that,” West agreed.

  He marvelled that this big man, with the placid, routine mind, the thoroughness and the years of experience, would trot out a theory so glibly. To Wortleberry, probably, all things were simple. Well, this might be.

  They turned up a narrow alley, and found themselves almost at the station; the carriage approach was from the other side, a long way round.

  “We can watch the platform from the bridge,” Wortleberry explained, “and when she gets into her carriage, you can decide which one you want. You know,” he added almost gustily, “I’ve half a mind to come with you. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Only time I’ve ever been to the Yard was on a kind of Cook’s Tour!”

  “Any time you feel like a busman’s holiday,” West said promptly, “you come round with me.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” said Wortleberry. “Up there.” He nodded to the wizened old ticket collector at a little barrier. “The gentleman’s from Scotland Yard, Joe,” he said. “Okay?”

  “Sure, Sam. Pay on the train.”

  “Ta.”

  They went up narrow wooden steps, and then joined the main steps leading from one platform to the bridge which crossed the railway. Here was the smell of soot and smoke, fire and steam, which could only be associated with a railway station. The bridge was glass covered, and hot. The floor was wooden, and most people were hurrying. One train came fussing in, another stood at a platform marked in big white on pale green: 2.

  “That’s your train. See the entrance? She should be here any minute,” Wortleberry added. “It’s twenty two minutes past.”

  West didn’t speak.

  Less than a minute later, Daphne Mallow walked through the ticket barrier, carrying her own suitcase, a square, biscuit coloured one with bright red corners. Looking down, West saw how smoothly she moved, how nice she looked. “Nice” was the right word; any man expecting her to go eagerly to meet him, should think himself lucky. She hesitated before going into a third class carriage.

  “When Mallow goes by train, it’s always first,” Wortleberry observed. “She’s the careful one in that family.”

  “I’m just beginning to realise the value of living in a small town,” West said warmly. “I wouldn’t like to try to keep many secrets from you. How was Lord Hoole when you saw him this afternoon?”

  “Sunny, for him. Apparently he’s heard a lot about you, and said he wants to meet you.”

  “Tell him I’m going to ask for an interview tomorrow afternoon,” said West, “and ask him if it’s all right to search White Villa. On a warrant, of course! The Mallows might be back tomorrow, it could be our only easy chance. And if he’ll give you the warrant, do the job yourself, won’t you?”

  “I will,” Wortleberry rumbled. “In person.”

  They shook hands and then West hurried down the wide stairs leading to the train. He could get in a carriage behind the woman’s without passing her window, so she wouldn’t see him. It didn’t occur to him that there was the remotest chance of danger; or any chance of failure. The girl wasn’t a practised rogue, it was unlikely that she dreamed that she was being followed. The only risk was of losing her
in the crowd at Victoria.

  Roger watched the other passengers, keeping his usual sharp look out, but he didn’t see a man who was coming out of the refreshment room, opposite the end of the train. The man started for the platform, saw him, stopped, and backed away hastily. The door slammed. The man moved, and watched West through a refreshment room window. West got into a first class compartment, one carriage removed from the end. He took the last remaining corner seat, wished he had a newspaper, looked out of the window and saw the man coming out of the refreshment room. The pale, rather nondescript face didn’t mean a thing to him, and the man turned and walked towards the far end of the train. He was very shabby.

  West took out cigarettes.

  He’d keep up with the job, might make a quick arrest if he found Michael Mallow and the interview went the way it should, and then he could get home for the night. It wasn’t often that everything worked out as smoothly. The minor irritation of having no newspaper was soon smoothed, for within ten minutes of starting off, a fellow passenger offered him one.

  “Thanks very much,” said Roger West, and stretched out his legs and prepared for a comfortable hour and a quarter’s run.

  The train ran into Victoria on the dot of seven forty five. Roger was first out of the compartment. A little crowd of people from the third class carriage behind followed him. He wasn’t in a hurry, because he wanted to make sure that Daphne Mallow didn’t catch sight of him. He saw her getting out. A fellow passenger, big, youngish, and with very red hair, handed her down her case, and then obviously offered to carry it for her. Her protest was ineffectual. West let them start for the ticket barrier, then followed thirty yards behind.

  Mallow’s wife had nice legs, and no wobble. She—

  West felt his legs hooked from under him, and fell forward with frightening suddenness. He had no time to think of anything but the sudden collapse of his legs when something pushed his shoulder. He felt himself hurtling off the platform, on to the other line.