The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  All this was so exactly what was ordered, by way at least of a relish, that she could fairly hear herself purring. He talked about his work, and the German scene, and how, professionally, the English was incomparably better; he confided he was really here to take lessons.

  ‘Are you, Otto? You didn’t mention that.’

  ‘The shop asked me not to, Mary. I didn’t want to keep it from you. They thought it would be bad for business,’ he said, twinkling, ‘if you wrote that I was simply a student.’

  ‘But you’re more than that.’

  Well, he was; but for these specialized restorations, the work rooms of the Victoria & Albert Museum were where one had to go and learn. ‘You won’t write it?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I won’t.’ But at mention of the magic names, a pang had gone through her. She’d been groping for just the image; something romantically German, well pre-jackboot, mildly tutorial, in general terms gorgeous. Albert. Her Prince Albert. And Otto was a better name than Albert, and Mrs Otto better still. Mrs Otto W. Well, damn it, Mooney thought, and had a job keeping her hands out of his hair.

  To give them something to do, and since the stuff was doing such a great job, she uncoiled herself upwards and poured out another couple of slugs.

  He had a further surprise for her when she turned. From a breast pocket he had removed something like a paper-wrapped bread stick.

  ‘For you,’ he said, shyly proffering it, ‘if you like it.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘If you truly like it, Mary.’

  Wonderingly, she unwound the wrapping to reveal, somewhat mystifyingly, a rather dicey little flute, much battered.

  ‘Oh, well, my goodness,’ she said, working hard at liking it, ‘it’s lovely.’

  ‘I will make it so. It’s a Löwenherz, Mary.’

  ‘Is it?’ Mooney said, almost falling over.

  ‘Oh, there is no doubt – a genuine Löwenherz. Only think, little Lotte found it for me at a bazaar, she is so clever,’

  She had been hearing of this Lotte, the only blot on the horizon so far; his small musical sister who seemed a bloody sight too clever for her years.

  ‘In a Löwenherz we find great purity of tone,’ Otto instructed.

  ‘Do we?’ Mooney said. God, he was marvellous.

  ‘If you could – have we some other music?’

  Had she! She practically destroyed Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan in her haste to get Vivaldi at it.

  ‘Ah. Very good,’ he said. ‘The gigue.’

  He held the thing horizontally and blew, and did indeed get some very nice tones. He smiled and nodded as he did this, and she smiled and nodded along, until excessive nodding from his direction indicated that she was intended to dance along rather than simply nod along.

  Ever willing, she hitched up her skirt an inch and prettily obliged, until it occurred to her that six-footers didn’t show to tremendous advantage doing a jig in a small room, so after a second or two more of thudding about, she packed it in. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking of, ‘she explained.’ You must be ravenous. We can jig a bit later.’

  This could have been better expressed, it occurred to her, en route to the kitchen, but the nuance had escaped him, and he was looking professionally enough at the Löwenherz as she returned.

  She fed him his shrimp cocktail, and he exclaimed properly enough over her chicken casserole; very good, though she said it herself. It was his turn to let her know what was what in the matter of the Hock, and hers to instruct him on syllabubs.

  He was rather a glutton for interesting facts, as she was herself, and they had rather a feast of them in the candle-light. In this light she knew she was looking by no means bad, and he himself so absolutely whacko that for lengthy periods she didn’t attend to what his delicious voice was actually saying.

  They’d been going there and back over the relative advantages of life in Germany and England. For herself, Mooney didn’t care if they lived in the forest, like Hansel and Gretel; or in Timbuctu, come to that. But it apparently depended upon instructional and professional facilities.

  ‘Ah, Mary, it is so good to talk to you,’ he said, stroking her hand. ‘To have somebody I can talk to.’

  ‘Is it, Otto?’

  ‘Wonderful. Always, always I have wanted a sister.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got one, haven’t you?’

  ‘Ah, Lotte. My little sister.’ With a rather secretive smile he was taking a photo out of his wallet. ‘But always I wanted an older sister. You are her, Mary.’

  She’d had sherry and brandy and wine, but it couldn’t be that, could it? In some bemusement, Mooney looked at the photo he was showing. A photo of her?

  It wasn’t of her.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

  ‘Elke. My fiancée. Isn’t she beautiful?’

  The little blonde cow was smirking away in the photo.

  Mooney didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know whether to throw it back at him, or tear it up, or simply to tip up the whole table in his lap.

  His stupid slow voice was belling out the awful phrases.

  ‘We will be married, but what, for her musical education, is the best? Here undoubtedly … her mother … my father … the professional possibilities … all my life someone to whom I can really talk … Ah, Mary, dear, don’t you love her?’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Mooney said.

  ‘Ah!’ He was immediately attentive. ‘You have worked today.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Like a dog. And other days, getting the ingredients for his sodding casserole.

  He was enormously contrite. ‘I will go now.’

  She didn’t stop him. She didn’t wrestle him to the floor, or kick him in the crutch.

  ‘I will restore the Löwenherz. I knew you’d love it, but after all, we’d talked so little, Mary. It was a question of immediate sympathy. Right away I saw in you that sister – but one has to be certain. I will attach, I think, a little cord, a leather – thang?’

  ‘Thong,’ Mooney said.

  ‘Yes. It will go – just so. On this wall, I think. Don’t you think that is the best?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mooney said.

  ‘Yes. You are tired, Mary dear. I can see it.’

  That’s right. Like everybody’s very oldest sister.

  She let him go. She laughed. She cried. She remembered the jig she had danced for him, metaphorically as well as literally. Hansel and Gretel. Mrs O.W. Oh, well. Systematically, she broke the Vivaldi record, and then broke the halves, too. Then she stuffed the chrysanthemums in the bin. As for the flute, he knew where he could stuff that. But still her energy was not spent, and she thought what else to do.

  19

  THE front pages were black with chloroform next morning. As Jack had said, there was nothing to touch a maniac for keeping readers up to the mark. Like the Boston Strangler and the Cambridge Rapist before him, the Chelsea Maniac now entered the Press pantheon.

  He sprang in fully-costumed with his big head and his white face and his rubbery lips; and also with an interesting new set of characteristics. The Globe had already established that he was not only a deranged genius but one who mocked the police with coded notes. As every one of the papers noted, the police were still refusing comment, apparently preferring protection of their reputation to that of the public.

  Warton, grimly reading, saw that they had a point.

  But he brooded on another.

  What his correspondent had advised was an intention to steal a kiss; from L.H. What he had demonstrated was that if he had wanted, he could have stolen a life as well; that he had to be taken seriously.

  But seriously in which way? What did he want? If it were simply publicity he could have sent the messages to the Press himself. Evidently he didn’t wish to do this. But the Press (at least the Globe) had in some way got wind of them.

  Warton had an itch to call the girl Mooney to find out how; and waited restlessly for the order instructing him to. It hadn’t come
by mid-day, and he read through the early editions of the evenings, all still heavy with the manic kisser.

  A few minutes before one he called the Yard himself, to learn that the C.C. and all senior officers were conferring on the matter; and put down the phone, burning. As the man in charge of the case, shouldn’t he be conferring with them?

  He had sandwiches in his office, and at two was favoured with a call from his Commander.

  ‘Pull Mooney in, Ted.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Have you got up the C.C.’ s nose in some way?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know,’ Warton said.

  ‘Try and be flexible, old boy.’

  ‘Like me to come off the case?’ Warton said stiffly.

  ‘Don’t be so damn silly. There’s nobody better. There are a lot of issues here, Ted. We were discussing them.’

  ‘Yes. Heard you were conferring,’ Warton said.

  ‘He knew you were up to the neck. His opening remark – you weren’t to be disturbed.’

  ‘I see,’ Warton said, somewhat mollified. ‘You realize that pulling her in confirms the notes?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Okay.’ He buzzed Summers and told him to get Mooney.

  However, it was Tuesday, and Mooney wasn’t so easily to be got; the last pages were due down and she was phoning in stories from here and there.

  ‘Righto. Whenever you do contact her,’ Warton said, when Summers came in to explain the delay. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  He had looked up from the latest editions, with a certain relish. ‘Seen the Globe, Summers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Too late for its rivals to compete, the Globe had suddenly dropped Honey as its main attraction, and had very dramatically and startlingly re-made the paper, widening the field and giving it quite a new and urgent quality.

  THE SIEGE OF CHELSEA.

  ‘Not bad,’ Warton said. ‘Buy it myself. Who’s this bloke?’ He was tapping the photo of the policeman decorating the page.

  ‘That,’ Summers said loweringly, ‘is the young prick who was on the door at The Gold Key when the girl removed the photo. I’ve just been talking to his local station. The Globe apparently told them last week they were doing a series on London police, and they fell for it. This – this bloke volunteered.’

  Warton gave a low chuckle. He’d thought it too good a production to have been dreamed up in the course of the day; backed up to the hilt inside, special stories: gyms, locksmiths, sex clubs. ‘Got on to Shaft, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Got to hand it to them. They do a job. Let me know, then.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Summers said, and went out; and within the minute was back again.

  Warton looked silently at his stricken face, and at what was in his hand.

  Then they both looked at it, on his desk.

  This one had been posted in a street pillar box some time between mid-day and 3 p.m. when the box had last been emptied.

  Same paper, same type style.

  To dance to flutes,

  To dance to lutes,

  Is delicate

  And rare.

  With the briefest look at Summers, Warton reached for the Oxford, and traced the quote.

  It is sweet to dance to violins

  When love and life are fair;

  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes

  Is delicate and rare:

  But it is not neat with nimble feet

  To dance upon the air!

  ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’.

  Oscar Wilde.

  *

  All morning, after seeing the papers, Brenda had been feeling nervous, but it wasn’t till mid-afternoon that she braced herself.

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’ she asked the chief librarian.

  ‘Of course, Brenda. What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Well, you know when those detectives came the other day, they asked if I’d mentioned it to anyone else …’

  *

  Warton got this at about five, and he slowly nodded, seeing the thing begin to add up.

  ‘Where is Mooney?’ he said.

  ‘She left the Citizens’ Advice Bureau five minutes ago, sir. We’d left a call for her there.’

  ‘Did she get it?’

  ‘Yes, they told her … It’s apparently her busy day. She’s hopping about, phoning in – evidently quite normal. She’s keeping her appointments in some funny sort of way, though.’

  ‘All right. Put a car on her. I’ll be here,’ Warton said grimly.

  He wasn’t, though. He was at the Yard when Summers finally pinned Mooney. This was at 7 p.m.

  ‘Kicking up a bit, sir. Picked her up at her door,’ he told Warton. ‘She apparently wants to go to some party.’

  ‘Okay. Let her.’

  ‘Let her go?’

  ‘Yes. See her tomorrow. Ten.’

  ‘Okay, sir,’ Summers said, long-suffering. ‘Ten in the morning?’ he added, to get it right.

  ‘That’s it. Good work, Summers. Very nice. Go home,’ Warton said, feeling flexible.

  He’d had rather a flexible chat. There was a lot of point, he saw, in flexibility.

  *

  ‘You didn’t answer our calls,’ Warton said.

  ‘I was busy. Late stories. Didn’t they tell you?’

  Rather a besom; and very alert, Warton saw. Something hysterical about the large eyes.

  ‘I understand that,’ he said flexibly. ‘Still, you must have had an idea what it was about. Not of interest to you?’

  ‘Of great interest, but we’ve all got our jobs, Superintendent. Tuesday’s the big day round at the Gazette. And anyway, here we are,’ Mooney said gaily.

  ‘Okay. Fire ahead.’

  Mooney was confused. ‘You wanted to see me,’ she said.

  ‘Understand you’ve asked to interview me a couple of times. Give you the precedence. Start interviewing.’

  ‘Well. Well,’ Mooney said. ‘Have you had any more notes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Warton said.

  ‘I see,’ Mooney said breathlessly. ‘Would you like to say what’s in them?’

  ‘No,’ Warton said.

  He waited, watching her.

  Mooney thought she’d never before seen a more unpleasant-looking individual. She’d heard a good deal about him but the actuality was far more menacing. He wasn’t so much like a wart-hog as an intelligent rhinoceros, looking cunningly at her, before the moment of charge.

  ‘Well, you’ve rather taken me by surprise,’ she said.

  ‘Okay. Have a breather. Perhaps you’d like to tell me how you came to hear of these notes.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Mooney said, her heart banging away, ‘that I would.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Mustn’t reveal my sources.’

  ‘If they’re criminal ones, you certainly must.’

  ‘Oh, must I?’ Mooney said.

  ‘Unless you want to be an accessory. Ought to know that. Journalist. Criminal case.’

  ‘Mr Warton,’ Mooney said, with a glad flourish of her notebook, ‘are you threatening me?’

  ‘Just explaining the law. Shouldn’t be necessary.’

  He watched tolerantly as she busily wrote.

  ‘Do I understand you’ve just officially admitted that you are receiving these notes?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Am I the first you’ve –’

  ‘Yes. All to yourself, time being. Like that?’

  ‘Very much. Unless it’s by way of wanting tit for tat.’

  ‘No bargains.’

  ‘May I further ask, at risk of being greedy, if you’re ready to say that the notes refer to former residents of Chelsea?’

  ‘Haven’t seen anything in the Globe about that,’ Warton said.

  ‘Are you saying it?’

  ‘Not making any comment whatever,’ he said casually.

  While casual, he was watching her quite carefully; her c
hest was rising and falling jerkily.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to say,’ he said, ‘whether you have any sources other than the young lady at the library.’

  In the breathy pause, Mooney said, ‘Old Brenda, eh?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Well, it must seem ungracious,’ Mooney said, after a while, ‘but I can’t tell you, Superintendent. Sorry.’

  ‘Have you given the Globe anything they haven’t printed?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, either.’

  ‘There’d be no objection to your editor knowing you’d told me. It’s obvious I wouldn’t go and broadcast it.’

  ‘Pretty obvious,’ Mooney said. ‘You aren’t broadcasting much, are you? Perhaps if you had, Mrs Honey wouldn’t have been attacked.’

  Warton watched her unwinkingly.

  ‘Have you any grounds for believing that?’ he said.

  ‘Have you any for believing otherwise?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I believe,’ Warton said. ‘I believe your only source was that young lady in the library. I believe you did a bit of guesswork there, and your reports ever since have been based on it. Isn’t that about the size of it?’

  ‘Read the Globe, Superintendent,’ Mooney lightly told him.

  He didn’t get up as she went.

  He waited a minute and buzzed through for Summers.

  ‘Get all that?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Knows we had warning on Honey.’

  ‘Could be a flier, sir.’

  ‘Ng. Put a tail on her.’

  ‘Full-time?’

  ‘Have to. Three men, damn it, eight-hour shifts.’

  ‘Her phone, too?’

  ‘Needs permission. Always trouble there. Never mind,’ Warton said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  He did that, and saw the reports as they came in, and read the papers, and at seven went home.

  *

  But despite the maniac, life was still going on, including that part of it that concerned Denny’s possible entry to the world of film. At seven Steve was in The Potters, awaiting Artie with a pint. Artie turned up at a quarter-past, with his briefcase.