The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  ‘Well, there’s no doubt –’

  ‘Panic stalking the streets being the staple. In which connection – Violet’s piece. Far too chatty. All these people carrying on as usual. They shouldn’t be carrying on as usual. We need some genuine nervousness. Cinema takings down – locksmiths’ takings up. What time are they bolting in the old folks? Things of that nature. We can take your other ideas now.’

  They discussed Chris’s other ideas, but he was by no means at ease with them. ‘What would make me happier, Jack, is some hard stuff. This film group Mooney was keen on. She seemed to think –’

  ‘Oh, God, she isn’t still going on about it, is she?’

  ‘Not at all. I can’t even raise her. But there’s apparently an Arab backing the film.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he’s backing the maniac?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then change gear,’ the editor advised. ‘This thing is big.’

  ‘Okay,’ Chris said.

  ‘As are Arabs in season. But not this season. Scrub Arabs.’

  Chris went out, not too happy, but a few minutes later was back again, much happier. A small item had come in which was definitely hard stuff. It was rather a mysterious item.

  ‘This wouldn’t be Arabs, would it?’ Jack said, studying the item.

  ‘Oh, no. She’s scrubbed those.’

  14

  ‘COMPROMISE on both sides, as part of the piss-making process,’ Abo said.

  ‘Abo,’ Frank said, cutting in on his headphones. ‘Say “peace”.’

  ‘Peace,’ Abo said.

  ‘Try that part again. From Dr Kissinger.’

  ‘Dr Kissinger said that what was needed was compromise on both sides, as part of the piss-making process.’

  ‘Abo.’

  ‘Hello?’ Abo said.

  ‘Say “leave”.’

  ‘Leave,’ Abo said.

  ‘Say “I leave you in peace”.’

  ‘I leave you in peace,’ Abo said.

  ‘Now read from Dr Kissinger again.’

  ‘Dr Kissinger said that what was needed,’ Abo said, ‘was compromise on both sides, as part of the piss-making process.’

  ‘Yes. Okay, Abo,’ Frank said, and ranged elsewhere.

  Difficult case, Abo.

  They were all difficult cases here. He had twelve of them. He was seated at his console, switching in and out of the tape-recorders they were mumbling into around the room.

  He looked at his watch. Time – oh, God! – for a spot of grammar.

  Four of the twelve, he knew, would fall asleep immediately in grammar. The remainder, with a solitary exception, would nod off before the end. The exception was the Jap. This clever little devil was after more grammar than Frank had. He walked about with a frightening book of it, finding paradoxes with which to tax Frank.

  The one defence – of which Frank made full use – lay in the near impossibility of understanding a word that came out of him. Despite his astounding brain his mouth seemed to have been formed along lines not meant for Western speech.

  Frank had a quick switch-in to see that all was still well in that quarter. The familiar yowling reassured him, so he threw both master switches, stopping all recorders and speaking to everybody at once.

  ‘Okay, team. Beautiful work. Grammar now.’

  They dutifully took off their headsets and assembled nearer him, four of them at once snuggling into comfortable positions; the familiar glaze settling on other eyes. From the clever fellow with the big book the accustomed gleam shone out. Oh, well.

  Frank rambled on about grammar for half an hour, interrupted by the occasional yowl.

  ‘Prizterrus krekyuze verbin cases substantive yow-oo-yong. Eyung?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frank said.

  ‘Or ong inacular ominative owyung ingular niaow?’

  ‘Good point, Miki.’ And the right one to stop him at. ‘Only sorry there isn’t time to go into it. Okay, chaps!’ he said loudly, and saw Abo come awake with the rest.

  He followed Abo to the Ferrari and got in while Abo detached the two parking notices from the windscreen – he collected upwards of twenty a week at £6 a time – and they boomed grandly off to Sloane Square, and round it to Coryton Place.

  They ascended together in the lift, Frank rather anxious. It was early yet, not quite four. But he had an appointment with Steve and Artie at five; and Abo had to be got over first.

  Abo had the top floor of a splendid mansion. ‘Servant out this afternoon,’ he said, as they entered it. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Gin. I feel ginny,’ Frank said, smacking his lips.

  ‘You make them, Frank. I feel dirty.’

  From Abo this could have had a variety of meanings, but Frank knew he was only going to have a shower. One thing about this son of the sands, he was hygienic to a fault.

  Frank poured the drinks, with bitters in his own, and walked about pondering the best way to raise the subject. Abo’s residence afforded ample areas for walking in. Interior decorators had been at it for months, knocking down large parts and putting in other parts that Abo wanted. He had a taste for mirrors and panelling; also for enormous picture windows. Frank sipped his gin, still pondering, and had a look out. The fire escape was the principal view from the main window. It snaked five floors down.

  He could hear Abo warbling distantly, so he poured himself another, and found the right panel, and the gold cigarette box inside, and lit up one of Abo’s specials. Always a fine quality of hashish at the prince’s.

  While doing it, he prudendy checked the main mirror. Only his own reflection showed in it, but he felt for the panel and opened a half of the mirror and went into the room behind.

  The camera was closed up to the mirror but not in operation. He looked through the viewfinder to see what it was closed up on. It was on the huge divan in the room outside. All the room could be seen through the two-way mirror.

  Frank came out again and closed the panel and sat in one of the jumbo zebra chairs. The style of everything here was so hideous it amounted to a masterpiece. He knew the fault wasn’t the interior decorator’s. Abo was obstinate. He knew his own mind, and this was its reflection.

  ‘You lit up,’ Abo said, coming in sniffing.

  ‘Relaxer. What’s new with that camera?’

  ‘Show you later. Send you out of your mind, oo-wah!’ Abo said. He was in a crisp towelling robe, very white against his sallow skin; undeniably sexy, Frank thought. A lively, useful performer, the prince. Fickle, though.

  ‘Abo, what is all this nonsense about the film?’ he said, deciding on the direct approach, as Abo lit up and sat.

  ‘What nonsense?’

  ‘Giving them those bills back.’

  ‘Why I pay?’

  ‘You said you would.’

  ‘Why?’

  Christ. Ancient failings. Frank remembered his father had had affairs with several Arabs – lowlier ones, from Marrakesh or thereabouts – and had damn near killed a few. Fickle.

  ‘Abo, honestly, what is this kind of money to you? You pay that in parking fines.’

  ‘True.’ Abo quietly crowed, amused. ‘Forget it, Frank.’

  ‘You’ll pay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Damn it, Abo, it’s my film, too. Why do this to me?’

  Abo thought. ‘Okay. I see.’

  ‘Aren’t you having fun? Smashing boys, some of those actors.’

  ‘Boys so-so. Girls better,’ Abo said. ‘Surprise, those girls, Frank. Good families. Lady This, Lady That. Surprise.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  ‘True, know different things. But only one time.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I see one girl one time, then no more. Why?’

  ‘H’m.’

  Frank divined the difficulty. Boys were boys and girls were girls, and Abo’s experience leaned to the former. What Lady This and Lady That obviously needed was a good talking to.

  ‘You think it might be me?’ Ab
o said, anxiously watching.

  ‘Well, it might be, mightn’t it?’

  Abo’s face darkened.

  ‘I could always ask them,’ Frank said.

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Best way to find out, Abo.’

  ‘If I don’t like to hear?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Oh. Well,’ Abo said. He had now grown very gloomy.

  He got up and poured another drink.

  ‘I mean, if there is some small thing here or there,’ Frank said, ‘that should be done some other way, why ever not? Might as well know what’s on.’

  ‘You think?’ Abo said.

  ‘Definitely. Can’t know unless we are told, can we?’

  ‘True,’ Abo said, more cheerfully.

  Frank came to a strict decision on these girls. Jeopardizing the film for such peccadilloes. ‘And since we’re all in the film together, Abo,’ he said, pressing on rather, ‘it’s foolish not to know everyone thoroughly. It’s such a good film, anyway.’

  ‘Is it?’ Abo said. ‘I don’t understand this film, Frank. What story is it?’

  ‘Well,’ Frank said, bracing himself for, and then rejecting, the idea of explaining the film to Abo. ‘It’s about murders.’

  ‘Make plenty money?’ Abo was now quite jovial.

  ‘Well, it might. A few weeks ago I’d have said no. Though absolutely the thing for you,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Princely job, Abo, helping the arts. But with these murders, and the way the newspapers are going on, it could easily make a lot.’

  ‘Million pounds?’ Abo said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Two million?’ Abo said, chuckling. He got up and refilled both glasses. ‘Come through now, Frank. Show you something.’

  He opened the panel, switching on the small light inside, and they went behind the mirror.

  The video room was well equipped. Apart from the TV camera, there was the video recorder, the screen, a couple of TV sets, and the control gear. The place was comfortably furnished; a sofa, armchairs, a small bar. The air conditioning quietly hummed.

  Abo went to a tape library and selected a couple of spools. He put one on the recorder, and dimmed the light as he sat.

  Lady This appeared almost instantly on the screen, examining her features in the mirror. She was out of focus, though recognizable enough, and recognizably not wearing anything. She seemed suddenly to totter vertically upwards, and Abo appeared, grinning. Peals of laughter and imprecations filled the room in quadrophonic sound as her legs straddled Abo’s neck. ‘Abo, you beast! Put me down. I’ll fall!’

  Abo turned, on the screen, and paused a while to give the mirror a view of more of Lady This, and jigged a little round the room with her. Abo, too, was as Allah had made him. Then they collapsed on the divan in sharp focus, and some interesting stuff took place, till an altercation ensued, and Abo switched his remote control off. ‘Not interesting now,’ he said. ‘I show you another. Oo-wah, steam up, this one.’

  This one was a mixed doubles, and certainly was steamy. He heard Abo by his side begin to giggle slightly in a way that usually presaged a certain something. Frank had no objection. As the complex foursome urged each other on from the loudspeakers all around, he’d steamed up himself.

  They had another drink later, and Frank tried again about the film, without getting anything spectacular or immediate out of Abo.

  The best that Abo could come up with was, ‘I see, Frank. I think, eh?’

  Not a lot to tell the chaps, Frank thought.

  He bussed down the King’s Road, wondering what might be the best thing all round.

  What with one thing and another, he knew for certain what was best for the film.

  *

  He jumped off the bus at Manresa Road and hurried round the corner to the art school, already a bit late. Steve and Artie were waiting outside. They’d arranged to go to the bar of the Students’ Union, opposite: the art school shared it with the university’s chemistry department, whose members were usually there in larger numbers. He could see various white-clad chemical figures now, messing about with test tubes through the lighted windows of the laboratories.

  Steve and Artie seemed rather silent. He couldn’t tell if he’d interrupted a planning session or an argument. However, he took them inside and told them the latest news, and while they mulled it over went and bought the beer.

  ‘Three pints, Honey,’ he said to the lady at the bar.

  There was still an unpleasant silence when he returned.

  ‘Well, damn it, look,’ he said. ‘It isn’t the end of the world. Two hundred pounds is no fortune.’

  ‘Not if you’ve got it,’ Steve agreed.

  ‘They’ll surely let us look at the stuff.’

  ‘That’s exactly what they won’t fugging do,’ Artie said.

  The results of the night shooting had still not been seen. The discussion went drearily on till Frank came up with his next idea.

  ‘How about Artie trying to rustle up a commercial backer,’ he said, ‘to look at what we’ve got?’

  ‘Screw that, too!’ Artie said.

  ‘Oh.’ Frank realized the source of the silence. ‘I only thought, with all these. murders –’

  ‘What Artie thinks there,’ Steve said, ‘is that we probably haven’t got enough to –’

  ‘What is this “probably” shit?’ Artie asked. ‘Am I the only one into this film? We’re shooting out of sequence. We still have no special effects. The stuff those shit-heads are hanging on to is so vital for any kind of – Oh, Christ!’

  ‘All right, only an idea,’ Frank said. ‘All we need really is two hundred quid for the time being.’

  ‘That’s all,’ Artie said.

  ‘Anybody thought of Denny?’

  ‘Denny?’ Artie looked at him. ‘What about Denny?’

  ‘Hasn’t that wily oriental got black money tucked away ready to go to the cleaners … Maybe a loan, or an investment?’

  ‘Well, how about that?’ Artie said to Steve.

  Steve had a drink. ‘He wouldn’t lend it,’ he said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘How would you guarantee he got it back?’

  ‘An investment, then.’

  ‘Denny invests in stuff he knows about. Jeans.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Artie said, and let a small silence develop.

  On his quarterly trips to Hong Kong and other parts, Denny handled stuff other than jeans. The money resulting from this stuff was the kind that needed cleaning up. It wasn’t money that actually went into a bank anywhere.

  They thought about this. Blue Stuff was Denny’s one retail outlet – a prestigious Chelsea one, to keep him in touch with the fashion end of the trade – but his basic business was that of importer and wholesaler. His warehouse was at Wembley, where Denny also lived. A Chinese partner ran the warehouse.

  Steve was so sure it was a non-starter, he couldn’t even bother arguing.

  But he thought it funny that Frank should have pushed the idea so hard; and that Artie should have gone along with it.

  They both knew Denny.

  15

  ‘I TELL you, never be manufactuler. All the time headache,’ Denny said. He was tapping his own neat head. He applied himself to the tape measure again. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-seven-half, twenty-eight. Ah? See yourself.’

  Steve had a try, and then Stanley and Wendy. The flare of the jeans worked out variously between twenty-seven and twenty-eight inches.

  ‘Dow!’ Denny said. He kicked out with his right foot, the only suggestion so far that he was delighted and not in a towering rage. Never easy to tell with Denny.

  ‘That van is hooting a lot out there,’ Wendy said.

  Not only the van; several cars, unwisely stuck behind it, were also hooting. The King’s Road was busy at eleven in the morning.

  ‘Won’t hoot long. All back!’ Denny said.

  ‘What – aren’t we tryin
g the rest?’ Stanley said.

  ‘All back. What they think – Oxford Stleet?’ Denny said. ‘King’s Load here. Extleme fashion. All back. Shit!’

  The three assistants repacked the few samples measured and put them back in the cartons. Steve and Stanley had carried in six of the cartons, weighing damn near a hundred pounds apiece. They carried them back out again, and after an altercation with the van-man returned to find Denny impassively kicking out with his foot again.

  It had certainly put him in a good mood, Steve saw, and he cheered up. Denny did this from time to time, trying out the cheaper English manufacturers against his own imports. If the stuff came up to specification he took it in good part, even though it cost him more.

  There was a reckless gambler’s quality to him that was quite engaging. He moved with a little lurching walk like some buccaneer of the China Seas. His egg-smooth face with its tiny nose puckered occasionally, but whether with uncontrollable anger or sudden hilarity it was impossible to say. The foot was the thing to watch for, or the sudden fist bunched in the air.

  He was going about now saying ‘Dow!’

  ‘Denny,’ Steve said, ‘I wonder if I could have a chat with you today.’ It was Friday, when Steve worked all day.

  ‘Not more lise? Had lise.’

  ‘Not a rise, Denny. Business matter, actually.’

  ‘Business, fine. You want to come in full time, Steve?’

  ‘Well, actually what I wanted –’

  ‘Good boy, Steve. I watch you. Make small joke. Good salesman always make small joke. You want that, Steve?’

  ‘Certainly like to think about it, Denny,’ Steve said, removing a denim cap from his head. Denny had a funny way of trying out his stock on the staff as he spoke. ‘But what I wanted to discuss at the moment –’

  ‘Crever boy. Come here one moment.’ Denny was nodding him into a corner. ‘How you rike I make manager? I see how customers rike you. Stanley no good, no joke. You work hard, make prenty money, ah?’

  Steve removed another cap from. his head, and thought. If the promotion could be cemented with a loan, how long would he have to hang on to the job, anyway?

  ‘Won’t talk now. Talk rater. Upstairs,’ Denny said.