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    The Case of the Innocent Victims
    The Case of the Innocent Victims
    The Case of the Innocent Victims
    Ebook237 pages2 hours

    The Case of the Innocent Victims

    By John Creasey

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    Murder at its horrifying worst! Chief Inspector (‘Handsome’) West of Scotland Yard has his hands full with a case involving a baby-killer who is at large. Is he dealing with a psychopath, or someone who has a twisted vendetta against the employees of a carpet importer? A reserve soldier might know more than he is admitting, and what roles are being played by a hunchback who has arms like steel, and a blonde who seems to invite trouble? West must act – fast!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755137015
    The Case of the Innocent Victims
    Author

    John Creasey

    Born in Surrey, England, into a poor family as seventh of nine children, John Creasey attended a primary school in Fulham, London, followed by The Sloane School. He did not follow his father as a coach maker, but pursued various low-level careers as a clerk, in factories, and sales. His ambition was to write full time and by 1935 he achieved this, some three years after the appearance of his first crime novel ‘Seven Times Seven’. From the outset, he was an astonishingly prolific and fast writer, and it was not unusual for him to have a score, or more, novels published in any one year. Because of this, he ended up using twenty eight pseudonyms, both male and female, once explaining that booksellers otherwise complained about him totally dominating the ‘C’ section in bookstores. 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, JJ Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York. As well as crime, he wrote westerns, fantasy, historical fiction and standalone novels in many other genres. It is for crime, though, that he is best known, particularly the various detective ‘series’, including Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Baron, The Toff, and Inspector Roger West, although his other characters and series should not be dismissed as secondary, as the likes of Department ‘Z’ and Dr. Palfrey have considerable followings amongst readers, as do many of the ‘one off’ titles, such as the historical novel ‘Masters of Bow Street’ about the founding of the modern police force. With over five hundred books to his credit and worldwide sales approaching one hundred million, and translations into over twenty-five languages, Creasey grew to be an international sensation. He travelled widely, promoting his books in places as far apart as Russia and Australia, and virtually commuted between the UK and USA, visiting in all some forty seven states. As if this were not enough, he also stood for Parliament several times as a Liberal in the 1940’s and 50’s, and an Independent throughout the 1960’s. In 1966, he founded the ‘All Party Alliance’, which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum, and was also involved with the National Savings movement; United Europe; various road safety campaigns, and famine relief. In 1953 Creasey founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. He won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his novel ‘Gideon’s Fire’ and in 1969 was given the ultimate Grand Master Award. There have been many TV and big screen adaptations of his work, including major series centred upon Gideon, The Baron, Roger West and others. His stories are as compelling today as ever, with one of the major factors in his success being the ability to portray characters as living – his undoubted talent being to understand and observe accurately human behaviour. John Creasey died at Salisbury, Wiltshire in 1973. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

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      Book preview

      The Case of the Innocent Victims - John Creasey

      Chapter One

      Woman in Despair

      Mad or not, Gibson said, I’d string ’em up. And you needn’t give me any of that ‘our job’s to catch ’em, not to worry about what happens to them afterwards’. First I’d give them the cat, and then I’d string ’em up.

      Superintendent Roger West was walking beside him, along a narrow street which led to Bank Terrace. It was quicker to go this way, leaving Roger’s car behind them, than to drive right up to the house. A crowd had already gathered; newspapermen were there in their dozens; and probably there was an ambulance, certainly several Divisional police cars.

      The footsteps of the two large men echoed. It was dark overhead, but the fluorescent lamplight was good, so that these men of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard could see each other clearly. Roger, an inch the taller and perhaps an inch the broader, did not actually smile; his lips curved in a sardonic way which Gibson was getting to know well.

      I don’t care how much you blow off steam with me, he said mildly, but don’t let the newspaper chaps hear you talk like that.

      Probably every one of them will be screaming what I’m saying from the headlines, Gibson retorted.

      Let ’em – so long as they don’t quote a copper, Roger said.

      Just ahead was a policeman, quite short in spite of his helmet. He was blocking the path, and shone his flashlight into their faces as if to make quite sure who they were.

      Superintendent West?

      Yes.

      This way, sir.

      Thanks, Roger said.

      They stepped through a narrow gateway into a small, narrow garden. Ahead of them was the back of the long terrace of tall houses, with oblongs of light showing many windows. At the house to which the garden belonged every window was ablaze with light, and shadows moved against the curtains of one on the second floor.

      There’s another officer on duty at the back door, sir, their guide said.

      Thanks. Roger nodded, and led the way – but as he saw the pale light which showed the silhouette of a policeman against an open door, the quiet was pierced by a sharp, high-pitched scream.

      The sound went through Roger; involuntarily, he stopped. Gibson bumped into him. They stared up at the window where the shadows were, and suddenly these became much darker. The shape of a woman appeared against the bottom pane, there was a squeak of sound, and the window shot up.

      A woman appeared.

      There was just enough light to reveal her face, but not to see the awful expression on it; that was left to the men’s imagination. She was screaming, as if her mouth were wide open and she could not stop. For a moment it looked as if she would throw herself out.

      Why the hell doesn’t someone stop her? Gibson exclaimed.

      Another shadow appeared against the window. The woman seemed to be struggling, and her screaming fell away to a gasping sound. The hands and the arms of a man they could not see were at her shoulders, restraining her.

      All right, Roger said, and turned towards the back door.

      First left, and then right, sir, the second constable said.

      Thanks. How long has this been going on?

      Twenty minutes or so, sir, on and off.

      Know the woman – what’s her name?

      Mrs Kindle, sir. I don’t exactly know her, but I’ve often seen her, wheeling the— The man broke off.

      Hmm, said Roger. So this is your beat?

      Yes, sir.

      I’ll want a full report on everything you know about Mrs Kindle, her neighbours, husband, friends – the lot, Roger said. Tell the chap at the garden gate, will you? And put it round the station. Some of you may be having a late night.

      If it would help to get the devil who did that job, we’d work all night for a month.

      Sure you would, said Roger, and nodded.

      He stepped into the kitchen of the ground-floor flat in the house, which had four floors and four flats altogether. There was a faint smell of cooking, a little stale but not really unpleasant, and there was also a slight smell of gas. A light shone in a passage which led to the left, and another uniformed policeman stood at the foot of a flight of stairs. The front door, leading to the crowds, was shut, and doubtless other men were on duty on the porch, to make sure that no one could slip through. The only sound seemed to be that of a woman, crying. In the bright landing light, Gibson was looking pale and angry. That didn’t matter, provided it did not destroy his judgment. He had been recently promoted to Chief Inspector’s rank at the Yard, and had come originally from this Division – AS. That was why Roger had brought him on this investigation. Gibson was in the early forties, and last year his fourth son had been born. In the same year, his second son had died; it wasn’t surprising that Gibson felt keenly about the suffering of the woman upstairs.

      For her child, her infant son, had died only a few hours ago.

      Finding the murderer was only one problem; one to flash across the headlines of the newspapers, to rumble about the Yard, to be tapped along the teletype machines and winged along the wires – all these noises gradually becoming fainter until the horror of this night was forgotten except in the heart and the mind of the mother, and perhaps of the father, who was away at sea.

      The mother would have to face the greater part of this burden on her own.

      Gibson also knew that.

      It was a good thing for a detective to have a soft spot, to feel keenly, to hate the men he was after, but a bad thing if it warped his judgment or influenced his actions. Although this case would reach its peak soon, and then gradually fade, its influences on Gibson might last for a long time, and so affect the dozens of cases he would investigate every year, the hundreds in the course of his service at the Yard. It was important to try to help this mother, and to find the killer of a four-month old baby; it was vital to put Gibson right if he showed signs of going wrong.

      They went up a flight of narrow stairs, Roger in the lead. The door of a flat was closed and there was no light at the sides. There was plenty of light above their heads, for the front door of the bereaved woman’s flat was open. As Roger and Gibson reached the landing, they saw two uniformed policemen and, beyond, three plain-clothes men. One of them was on his knees and using, of all things, a large magnifying glass. The crying was coming from a room beyond.

      A thickset man of medium height came hurrying from there. He had a chunky face, very light blue eyes, and a briskness and lightness of tread which was somehow surprising. He wore a well-cut and well-pressed suit of pale grey; his iron-grey hair was cut very close. He thrust out his hand, and said: You didn’t lose any time.

      Tried not to, Roger said, and looked towards the door of the room from which the man had come. Has she seen a doctor?

      Going to have a sedative in five minutes, the other said, and nodded to Gibson. Hallo, Gibby, hope you don’t try to run the Yard as you tried to run AS. There was no spite in the words. Before you see the mother, Handsome, there are one or two little things it might be helpful to know. Her husband’s somewhere off the coast of South America, and even if he were allowed to fly back from the nearest port, it would be several days before he could get here. And there’s another man in her life. According to what I’ve been able to find out from neighbours, this other chap wants her to get a divorce, but she refuses because of the baby.

      My God! exclaimed Gibson.

      Handsome will soon start telling you not to jump to conclusions, so I’ll say it for him, the thickset man said. He was Ledbetter, the Superintendent of the Division. That’s why I’ve kept questioning her a bit, tried to find out if this other fellow had been around tonight.

      Has he?

      She just goes into hysterics every time I ask.

      Better give her a rest, Roger advised. Sent someone for this chap?

      Haven’t got his address yet; we only picked up the information from a neighbour, Ledbetter answered. But we’re digging.

      Go deep, said Roger dryly.

      All policemen, even leading members of the Criminal Investigation Department, could be classified, and Ledbetter’s classification was ‘hard’. He would conduct an investigation and deal with witnesses coldly and harshly, and almost to a point of cruelty. He knew that this was never approved, and had learned to make excuses for any apparent excesses. In fact, he didn’t go over the line into third degree, and apart from the one hard streak, he was genial and easy to get along with.

      He had been forcing his questions too hard on the mother, believing that if he kept the pressure up long and severely enough, he would make her break down and talk of anything she knew. That might even be justified, if she knew anything to help.

      Roger went into the next room.

      This was the living-room, with its window, closed now, overlooking the back garden. The curtains were thrust to one side, as they had been when Roger had seen what had happened. Two detectives and a small man were in the room; the small man was almost certainly the doctor. Roger didn’t recognise him. He was a striking-looking man, sharp-featured, with dark, glossy hair; and he looked annoyed.

      The mother was sitting in a chair, silent now, head resting on the back of the chair, hands clutching the arms, eyes closed. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face blotchy, and yet in spite of all that, her good looks showed through. Her hair was fair and fluffy, and looked as if she had just combed and brushed it. She was breathing hard through her parted lips, and quivering a little.

      She had quite a figure, and a pale-blue twin set was stretched tight across her thrusting bosom.

      The little man asked abruptly: Are you Superintendent West?

      Yes, sir.

      I’ve been as patient as I can be, the man said sharply. I am Dr Frascatti, and I was asked not to give Mrs Kindle a sedative until you’d had a chance to speak to her. But I cannot allow any further questioning, no matter how well-intentioned or how necessary you regard it.

      Ledbetter had really rubbed him up the wrong way.

      I needn’t be two minutes, Roger said placatingly. If this were the only case of its kind we wouldn’t have pushed so hard, but it’s the second in a week, Dr Frascatti, and—

      You cannot bring the children back.

      If we find the right man we might save a third, Roger answered mildly, and Frascatti seemed momentarily abashed. The woman had not opened her eyes, and had taken no notice of Roger. She didn’t when he turned to her and said: Mrs Kindle, will you give us the address of your friend, Mr Cartwright?

      She did not answer, and did not open her eyes. Frascatti had opened a small box from his case, and was taking out a hypodermic syringe. A small bottle with a sealed top stood close to his bag. In a minute, he would have the syringe loaded, and would jab; a few minutes after that the woman would get a respite from her grief; but only a respite.

      Mrs Kindle, Roger said matter-of-factly, would you like us to get into radio communication with your husband, and have him fly home?

      Mrs Kindle’s eyes opened so quickly that it was startling. They were big and blue, wet with tears and dull with shock, but a glint showed in them as she exclaimed: No!

      We could arrange it, if you like.

      No! she cried. No, don’t fetch John. Don’t fetch him, he—

      All right, Mrs Kindle. What did you say Mr Cartwright’s address was?

      She stared at him, the glint fading from her eyes and the dullness coming back. She did not close her eyes again, but obviously she did not intend to say a word. Ledbetter had a half grin, a kind of ‘I-told-you-so’ look about him. The doctor held the syringe poised. Roger stood back and motioned to him, and watched as he pushed up the sleeve of Mrs Kindle’s left arm.

      This won’t hurt, Mrs Kindle, Frascatti soothed. Just a slight prick, that’s all, and you’ll be asleep within a few minutes. He rubbed spirit on to the fleshy part of the arm just above the elbow, and jabbed; he was swift and competent, and the woman hardly flinched. That’s all you have to worry about, he reassured her, and there was an expression almost of triumph in his face when he looked at Ledbetter.

      The woman closed her eyes.

      It was easier to understand Ledbetter’s attitude now, and even to share his feeling that the woman knew more about the murder of the child than anyone would like to think. But it was too late to take advantage of that; it had been when Roger had arrived.

      Before he could turn away, there came a sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, including those of a man running with swift, urgent steps; no policeman was likely to show such wild haste. Roger turned towards the door and, as he did so, saw the woman’s eyes open wide, saw the way she gripped the arms of her chair and tried to get up. In a few seconds she would be unconscious, and she knew it; but in this moment she did not want the promised respite, and her eyes were glaring.

      A man said heavily: I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go any further. If you’ll give me your name I’ll ask the Superintendent.

      Then hurry, don’t just stand there, a man ordered hotly. My name’s Cartwright, I’m a friend of Mrs Kindle. And I want to know what’s happened. I insist on knowing.

      Ledbetter looked startled, too, and Mrs Kindle’s expression was one of real alarm. But she could not get up, and the doctor held one shoulder, Gibson the other, to restrain her. Roger reached the door in two strides, and called: Let Mr Cartwright come in.

      A policeman stood aside hastily. Cartwright, who was at the foot of the flight of steps immediately below the landing, came running up; a tall, nice-looking lad – lad was the word which occurred to Roger. His hair was unruly, his collar and tie looked as if they had been hurriedly fastened.

      Roger stood aside, and then watched the face of Cartwright and the woman as they set eyes on each other.

      Chapter Two

      Guilt?

      The difficulty was to watch them both; but the woman’s expression seemed to freeze, and did not change from moment to moment. The man’s did. He stopped moving, when he saw Mrs Kindle. He formed a name: Anne, but it was little more than a whisper, and he gave the impression that he was choking. At first he looked terribly concerned, but now shock touched his eyes, perhaps bewilderment, too, and even horror. He didn’t move.

      Anne Kindle tried to moisten her lips, but it seemed as if she could not. Her eyes were so heavy that they actually closed once, and she forced them open again; Frascatti’s injection really carried a punch. She no longer made any attempt to get out of her chair, and Gibson took his hand away from her shoulder.

      Then Cartwright moved again.

      Anne, it—it can’t be true, he said, and reached her and went down on his right knee in front of her. Anne, don’t look at me like that. Anne!

      She had stopped looking at him, for her eyes were glazing over. Given a minute’s foreknowledge, Roger could have forestalled that injection and so won the full benefit of this encounter, but he had given way where Ledbetter would have held out; and no one could be surprised if Ledbetter felt that his own tactics had been wiser.

      They all made a kind of tableau, which had to be broken soon. Roger broke it, moving towards the chair and the unconscious woman, and saying quite briskly: Will you need a nurse, doctor?

      Someone will have to stay with her; she mustn’t be alone when she comes round, Frascatti answered.

      According to her neighbours, she hasn’t any relatives near, Ledbetter declared.

      Better get her to a nursing home, Roger said. Will you fix it, Percy? He spoke to Ledbetter, who nodded; he would arrange for the woman to go to a small nursing home in the Division, where she could be watched all the time; it would be necessary to have someone by her bedside, to take a statement when she came round. All of those things were routine, and no further word

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