Hell Is Too Crowded v5) Read online

  For my Grandmother Margaret Higgins Bell with affection.

  HELL IS TOO CROWDED

  Jack Higgins

  Open Road Integrated Media

  New York

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  A Biography of Jack Higgins

  (1)

  TO Matthew Brady, caught between the shadow lines of sleep and waking when strange things fill the mind, the face seemed to swim out of the fog, disembodied and luminous in the yellow glow of the street lamp. Once seen it was not easily forgotten, wedge-shaped with high cheekbones and deep-set, staring eyes.

  He was conscious of the wrought-iron frame of the bench hard against his neck, of the light drizzle beading his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he was alone.

  A ship moved down the Pool of London sounding its foghorn like the last of the dinosaurs lumbering aimlessly through a primeval swamp, alone in a world that was already alien.

  Somehow, it seemed to sum up his own situation. He shivered slightly and reached for a cigarette. The packet was almost empty, but he fumbled around for a while and finally managed to light one. As he drew in the first lungful of smoke, Big Ben struck two, the sounds curiously muffled by the fog, and then there was silence.

  He felt utterly alone and completely cut-off from all other human beings. He leaned on the parapet under the lamp, looked down through the fog to the river, and asked himself what now? Only the foghorn of the ship on its way down to the sea answered him and it was as if it were calling good-bye.

  He turned away, pulling up the collar of his jacket, and a woman ran out of the fog and cannoned into him with a gasp of dismay. She started to struggle and he held her at arm's length and shook her gently. "You're okay," he said. "There's nothing to worry about."

  She was wearing an old trench-coat tightly belted at the waist and a scarf tied peasant-fashion about her hair. She looked about thirty, with a round, intelligent face, her eyes dark and troubled in the light of the street lamp.

  For a moment, she gazed up into his face and then, as if reassured, laughed shakily and sagged against the parapet. "There was a man back there. Probably harmless enough, but he appeared so unexpectedly from the fog, I panicked and ran."

  Her English was good, but with a slight foreign intonation. Brady took out his cigarettes and offered her one. "The Embankment is no place for a woman at this time in the morning. Some pretty queer birds doss down here for the night."

  The match flared up in his cupped hands and she lit her cigarette and blew out a tracer of smoke. "You don't have to tell me. I only live across the road. I spent the evening with a girl friend in Chelsea. Couldn't get a cab, so I decided to walk." She laughed. "If it comes to that, you don't seem the type for a bench on the Embankment yourself."

  "It takes all kinds," he said.

  "But not your kind," she told him. "You're not English, are you?"

  He shook his head. "Boston, Massachusetts."

  "Oh, an American," she said, as if that explained everything.

  He managed a tired grin. "Back home I've got friends who'd argue with you on that one."

  "Have you far to go?" she said, "or do you intend spending the night here?"

  "I'm not even sure how I got here," he said. "I've a room at a hotel near Russell Square. I'll make it all right in my own good time."

  Heavy drops of rain spattered down through the branches of the sycamore trees and he pulled the collar of his jacket tightly around his neck, feeling suddenly cold. The woman frowned. "Look, you ought to be wearing a coat at least. You'll catch pneumonia."

  "Any suggestions?" he said.

  She took his arm. "You can walk me home. I'm sure there's an old raincoat hanging in the cupboard back at my flat. You can have it."

  He didn't bother to argue. All the strength seemed to have drained out of him and the moment he started to walk, the fumes of the whisky seemed to rise into his brain again.

  The fog pressed in on them, pushed by a finger of wind, and they crossed the road and walked along the echoing pavement. Rain dripped steadily from the branches of the trees and a car swept past, invisible in the fog, as they turned into a side street.

  He noticed the name high on the wall of the corner house on an old blue-and-white enamel plate--Edgbaston Gardens--and in front of them, the fog seemed to be tinged with a weird orange glow. A nightwatchman's hut loomed out of the darkness and at the side of it, a coke fire flared in an iron brazier.

  Brady caught a brief glimpse of a dim figure sitting in the hut, face faintly illuminated by the fire. "Be careful!" the woman warned. "There's a guard rail somewhere about here. They're doing something to the gas main."

  He followed close behind her as she skirted iron railings and then mounted some steps to a door and fumbled for a key in her handbag. The house was the end one in the terrace and at the side of it stretched a graveyard, a church tower shadowy in the night.

  It all seemed transitory and unsubstantial as if it might fly away into the fog at any moment and Brady followed her hurriedly into the hall and waited for her to switch on the light.

  An old Victorian wardrobe stood against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and in its mirror, he saw a door open behind him and caught a brief glimpse of a face, old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging on either side. As he started to turn, the door closed quietly.

  "Who's your neighbour?" he said.

  She frowned. "Neighbour? The downstairs flat is empty so you don't need to worry about noise. I'm on the first floor."

  Brady followed her upstairs, clinging to the banisters and feeling curiously light-headed. No one could expect to shrug off a two-day jag just like that, but there was a strange dream-like quality to everything and his limbs seemed to move in slow motion.

  The door to her flat was at the head of the stairs and she unlocked it and led the way in. It was surprisingly well furnished. Thick pile carpet covered the floor and concealed lights gently illuminated rose-tinted walls.

  He stood in the centre of the room and waited. She took off her coat and scarf and ran her hands over close-cropped dark hair as she moved forward. He swayed slightly and she placed her hands on his shoulders, bracing herself to support him.

  "What's wrong?" she demanded anxiously. "Aren't you well?"

  "Nothing that a jug of coffee and a good night's sleep won't cure."

  She was warm and desirable and very close. Suddenly, all the anger and frustration of the past two days seemed to drop from his shoulders like an old cloak. There was, when all was said and done, only one real cure for his condition. He pulled her close and kissed her gently on the lips.

  For a moment she responded, and then she pushed him firmly away, down into a large padded chair.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Don't be silly." She went to a cocktail cabinet which stood against the far wall, mixed a drink, and brought it back to him. "A hair of the dog. Drink up! It'll do you good. I'm going to make coffee. Afterwards, I'll get some blankets. You can have the divan."

  Before he could protest, she had crossed the room to the kitchen and he sighed and leaned back, allowing each tired muscle to relax.

  Whatever she'd put in the drink, it was good--very good. He took it down in two easy swallows and reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty, but there was a silver box on a coffee-table on the other side of the room.

  He got to his feet and sudd
enly, the room seemed to stretch into infinity and the coffee-table was at the wrong end of a telescope. He took one hesitant step forward and then the glass slipped from his nerveless fingers.

  He was on his back and the woman was bending over him. She looked completely calm and unperturbed and behind her, the door opened and then closed again.

  The face of the man who appeared at her shoulder, was wedge-shaped with deep-set, staring eyes, a face from a waking nightmare that Brady had last seen looming out of the fog above him on the Embankment.

  He opened his mouth in a soundless scream of warning, and then the room seemed to spin round in a whirl of coloured lights, sucking him down into darkness.

  (2)

  PAIN, exploding in a chain reaction, brought him back from darkness as someone slapped him repeatedly across the face. There were voices near by, a confused and meaningless blur, and then a tap was turned on.

  His head was forced down by a strong hand and he choked as ice-cold water surged into his nostrils. The pressure was released and he breathed again, but only for a moment. His head was pushed back down relentlessly. When he was dragged upright again, there was a roaring in his ears and he could hardly breathe, but his vision was clear.

  He was in a small, white-tiled bathroom and his reflection stared out at him from a waist-length mirror. His face was haggard and drawn, the eyes deep-set in their sockets, and there were scratches down one cheek.

  His shirt was soaked in blood and he leaned on the washbasin for support and stared at himself in bewilderment. A thick-set man in shabby raincoat and soft hat stood at his shoulder, eyes hard and unsympathetic in a craggy face.

  "How do you feel?" he demanded.

  "Lousy!" Brady croaked, and the voice seemed to belong to a stranger.

  "That's good, you bastard," the man said and pushed him roughly through the door.

  The living-room seemed to be crowded with people. A uniformed constable stood by the door, and two plain-clothes men worked their way round the room, dusting for fingerprints.

  A tall, thin man with grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, sat at one end of the divan with a notebook and listened to a small, bent old man, who stood before him twisting a cloth cap nervously between his hands.

  As Brady moved forward, the little man saw him and an expression of fear crossed his face. "That's him, Inspector Mallory," he said. "That's the bloke."

  Mallory turned and regarded Brady calmly. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Blakey?"

  The little man nodded confidently. "I'm not likely to forget him, governor. Saw him plain, standing in the doorway when she switched on the light."

  Mallory looked tired. He made a note in his book and nodded. "That's fine, Mr. Blakey. You go back to work. We'll get a statement from you later."

  The little man turned away to the door and Brady said slowly, "Look, what the hell's going on here?"

  Mallory looked up at him coldly. "Better show him, Gower," he said.

  The detective who had brought Brady from the bathroom, pushed him across to the bedroom. Brady hesitated in the doorway. There was a flash and a photographer turned and looked at him curiously.

  The room was a shambles, the floor was littered with toilet articles from the dressing-table and the curtains fluttered in the breeze from the smashed window. The bedclothes trailed down to the floor and the far wall was etched with a delicate spray of blood.

  Another detective was on his knees wrapping an antique whalebone walking-stick in a towel. It was slippery with blood and he turned and looked across the room and suddenly, there was silence.

  Gower pushed Brady forward to the end of the bed. Something was lying there draped in a blanket, squeezed between the bed and the wall.

  "Take a look!" he said, pulling the blanket away. "Take a good look!"

  Her clothes had been ripped and shredded from her body. She sprawled there wantonly, her thighs spattered with blood, but it was the face which was the ultimate horror, a sticky, glutinous mess of pulped flesh.

  Brady turned away, vomit rising into his mouth, and Gower cursed and shoved him across to the door. "You gutless wonder!" he said viciously. "I'd like to string you up myself."

  Mallory was still sitting on the divan, but now he was examining Brady's passport. Brady looked down at him, horror in his eyes. "You think I did that?"

  Mallory tossed Brady's jacket at him. "Better put that on; you might catch cold." He turned to Gower. "Stick him in the other bedroom. I'll be along in a minute."

  Brady tried to speak, but the words refused to come and Gower hustled him across the room, through the bathroom and into another bedroom. It was small and plainly furnished with a single divan under the window and a fitted wardrobe in an alcove. Gower pushed Brady down on to a small wooden chair and left him in the care of a young constable.

  When the detective had gone, Brady said, "Any chance of a cigarette?"

  The constable hesitated and then unbuttoned his tunic and took out a battered silver case. He gave Brady a cigarette and a light without speaking, and returned to his post by the door.

  Brady felt tired, really tired. The rain beat against the window and the cigarette smoke tasted of dead leaves and nothing made any sense. The door opened and Gower and Mallory came in.

  Gower moved across the room quickly, a scowl on his face. "Who the hell gave you that?" he demanded, plucking the cigarette from Brady's mouth.

  Brady tried to stand up and the detective hooked a foot in the chair and pulled it away, sending Brady sprawling to the floor.

  Brady came to his feet, anger rising inside him. This was something tangible, something he could handle. He hit Gower hard beneath the breastbone and as the detective doubled over, lifted his right into the man's face sending him back against the opposite wall.

  The young constable drew his staff and Gower scrambled to his feet, face contorted with rage. Brady picked up the chair in both hands and retreated into a corner.

  As they advanced towards him, Mallory said sharply from the doorway, "Don't be a fool, Brady!"

  "Then tell this big ape here to get off my back," Brady said savagely. "If he lays a glove on me again, I'll pound his skull in."

  Mallory moved in between them quickly. "Go and get cleaned up, George," he told Gower. "Make a cup of tea in the kitchen--anything. I'll send for you when I need you."

  "For Christ's sake!" Gower said. "You saw what he did to that girl."

  "I'll handle it!" Mallory said, and there was iron in his voice.

  For a moment longer, Gower glared at Brady, and then he turned quickly and left the room. Brady lowered the chair and Mallory nodded to the constable. "Wait outside."

  The door closed behind the constable and Mallory took out a packet of cigarettes. "You'd better have another," he said. "You look as if you could do with one."

  "You can say that again," Brady told him. He accepted a light from the inspector and slumped into a chair.

  Mallory sat on the divan. "Perhaps we can get down to some facts now."

  "You mean you want a statement?"

  Mallory shook his head. "Let's keep it on an informal level for the moment."

  "That suits me," Brady told him. "To start with, I didn't kill her. Didn't even know her name."

  Mallory took a photo from his pocket and handed it across. "Her name was Marie Duclos, born in Paris, been living over here for about six years." He took out a pipe and started to fill it from a leather pouch. "A known prostitute. After the Act chased her off the streets, she did what a hell of a sight too many of them have done--got herself a flat and a telephone--or someone got them for her."

  The photo was old and faded and Brady frowned and shook his head. "It doesn't look much like her."

  "That's not surprising," Mallory said. "If you look on the back, you'll see it was taken when she was eighteen and that's ten years ago. You'd better tell me how you met her."

  Brady told him everything, just the way it had happened, from his first awakening on the Embankm
ent, to the events in the flat.

  When he had finished, Mallory sat in silence for a while, a slight frown on his face. "What it really comes down to is this. You maintain you saw a man on the Embankment in the fog who you later saw again, here in this flat, standing behind Marie Duclos, just before you passed out."

  "That's about the size of it."

  "In other words, you're implying that this man committed the murder."

  "He must have done."

  "But why, Brady?" Mallory said gently. "Why pick on you?"

  "Because I was here," Brady said. "I suppose it could have been any poor sucker she happened to be entertaining."

  "But if he was here, where did he go afterwards?" Mallory said softly. "You and the woman were the only people to use the front door all night. The night-watchman swears to that."

  "How did you know something was wrong here?" Brady said.

  Mallory shrugged. "The nightwatchman heard her scream and then a candlestick was thrown through the window. He knocked them up next door and asked them to ring for us. He still had the door under observation the whole time. Nobody left."

  "There must be a rear entrance."

  Mallory shook his head. "There's a yard and an overgrown garden with a six-foot fence of iron railings dividing it from the graveyard."

  "It's still a possibility," Brady said. "And what about the old girl downstairs? Maybe she saw something?"

  "The downstairs flat hasn't had a tenant for two months now." Mallory shook his head and sighed. "It won't do, Brady. For one thing, you told me you first saw this man on the Embankment before the Duclos woman spoke to you. Now that just doesn't make sense."

  "But I couldn't have killed her," Brady said. "Only a madman could have beaten a woman to death like that."

  "Or a man so drunk that he didn't know what he was doing," Mallory said quietly.

  Brady sat there, staring helplessly at him. The whole world seemed to be closing in on him and there was nothing he could do about it--nothing at all.

  The door opened and the young constable came in and handed Mallory a slip of paper. "Sergeant Gower thought you might find this interesting, sir."