He worried all the way back home.
His tail walked all the way back behind him.
Artie’s tail carried on to Putney.
*
Warton got the reports on all these movements on Tuesday, and also studied the stuff from Liverpool. Artie Johnston hadn’t moved much from the parental home. There had been plenty of them in it: mother, father, four other children. The father and one of the sons were dockers. Artie had waited till they’d come home from work on Monday evening before suddenly taking off again for London.
Dollars, Warton thought.
There was many a salt at the docks prepared to swap a dollar or two. The father and brother hadn’t been tailed. Only Artie had been tailed; and he had barely stirred.
About twelve, Summers came in with further news.
‘Film lab’s on the line, sir. Our Artie is trying to bail his film out.’
‘For how much?’
‘Two hundred pounds. Cash.’
‘Hah!’ Warton smote the desk. ‘I told you, Summers – first real break. Always the weak spot, money. Right. Tell them to hold the film. I’ll have him and the money here.’
*
The blackie was quite a tiger when Warton saw him; had lashed himself into a rare fury. Warton liked this. People in a rage were useful; rash.
‘What right you think you got to do this to me?’ Artie said. His lips were crinkled and bluish.
‘Wanted to congratulate you,’ Warton said. ‘I hear you’re in a position to get your film out now.’
‘Screw you and your congratulations,’ Artie told him.
‘Where’s the money from?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Ten-pound notes, eh?’ Warton said, looking at them. ‘Didn’t have those when I saw you last.’
Artie opened his mouth and closed it.
‘How are things in Liverpool?’ Warton asked pleasantly.
‘None of your fugging concern.’
‘Dad in steady work down at the docks?’
‘And watch your fugging mouth,’ Artie said.
‘Watch yours, Johnston,’ Summers sternly told him.
‘Quite all right, Summers,’ Warton said. ‘Now, do you want to tell me where it’s from, or shall I put a few inquiries forward in Liverpool?’
He already had a few inquiries going forward in Liverpool.
Artie’s mouth had crinkled more, and he was opening and shutting it. ‘Well – I got it from a friend,’ he said.
‘Got a name, your friend?’
Artie’s mouth opened and closed again. ‘Frank,’ he blurted at last, wildly.
‘What – Colbert-Greer?’
‘Only – look – I’d like a word with him first,’ Artie said.
‘I bet you would,’ Warton said, and gave Summers a nod.
Artie waited in another room while Colbert-Greer was brought.
It was Frank’s day up among the Pre-Raphaelites in Manresa Road, and he was flustered at the disturbance.
‘I understand,’ Warton said, ‘that you gave Artie Johnston some money – that right?’
‘Well, what about it?’ Frank said.
‘Care to tell me how much?’
‘Two hundred pounds.’
Warton blinked.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Well – isn’t that personal?’ Frank said.
‘From the bank?’
‘No.’
‘Give him a cheque?’
‘I gave him the money.’ He peered. ‘Is that it there?’
‘I must ask where you got it,’ Warton said.
‘Must you? Well …’ Frank said, ‘it was from a friend.’
Warton looked curiously at Summers. It was slowly occurring to him that Colbert-Greer’s alibi could bear some closer scrutiny.
‘What’s the name of the friend?’ he said.
‘Willie.’
‘Willie what?’
Frank paused.
‘Ricketts,’ he said, consideringly.
‘Where is he?’
‘Well, there you’ve got me,’ Frank said.
‘He just gave you two hundred pounds.’
‘He sent it.’
‘By cheque?’
‘You have some kind of hang-up on cheques,’ Frank said. ‘There’s money, you know. That stuff there. He sent it.’
‘Where from?’
‘Well, I don’t know where from.’
‘Okay, take your time,’ Warton said. ‘It came by mail, did it? Registered mail?’
Frank thought. ‘No. Just the ordinary stuff. In an envelope, you know.’
‘Two hundred quid in an envelope. Any letter with it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Frank’s eyes gleamed a little. ‘He said he might send me more later.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he owes me it, really.’
‘What for?’
Frank paused a while. ‘I’ve got a cottage, you see,’ he said, ‘in the country. It was my father’s. Miles from anywhere. I let him have it for a long time.’
‘This is Willie, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you saying it’s back rent he’s paying you?’
‘He seemed to regard it in that way.’
Warton looked at Summers and back to Frank.
‘Where’s the letter?’ he said.
‘I threw it away.’
‘Was there an address on it?’
‘He doesn’t put addresses,’ Frank said.
‘Have you heard from him before?’
‘Now and again.’
‘Well, what was his last address?’
‘At my cottage.’
‘I see.’ Warton exchanged another glance with Summers. ‘You didn’t look at the postmark?’ he said.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Not curious at all – two hundred pounds arriving just like that?’
‘Well – bucked,’ Frank said. ‘It was so nice for the film, just now.’
‘Yes. Anyone in the house hand you this letter?’
‘No. I picked it off the mat. I was first at the post.’
Warton stared at him for some time. ‘I expect what happened,’ he said, ‘is that you just happened to be going out, so you read it in the street, and threw the letter and the envelope away somewhere on the way, and you don’t know where.’
‘Well, that’s it exactly,’ Frank said.
‘Yes. This Willie. What does he do for a living?’
‘Willie. Well, Willie,’ Frank said slowly, ‘is basically a sort or. painter, I would say.’
‘And he’s going to keep on sending you money, is he?’
‘That would be fun,’ Frank said. ‘But I don’t know.’
Minutes later, Summers saw him out, and was immediately back.
‘I want that Indian he was with checked out, every second of the way,’ Warton said. ‘Also test the old girl’s memory again. As for bloody Willie – well, try him.’
‘Try what?’
‘Ng.’
They arrived at a procedure in the end, though.
And Warton let Artie go; though he kept the money.
*
The Indian turned out to have been having a long solitary stroll, without a watch, before arriving at Frank’s on the night of Mr Wu’s death. On close interrogation, he recalled that it was Frank who had told him the time was a few minutes to seven when he arrived.
The old lady below had said to the detectives who had visited her again, ‘There he goes,’ when the footsteps sounded above. But the footsteps had proved not to be Frank’s but those of a person in the flat next to Frank’s.
By five that evening, Frank’s alibi was rather shaky, but at five-thirty a detective-sergeant called in to say that an agent in Pimlico had an artist by the name of Wilson Murray Ricketts on his books. The last address the agent had for Ricketts was at Lelant, near St Ives, Cornwall.
He had no phone number for him, so the St Ives police were con
tacted.
St Ives reported back the following day that the address in Lelant, a remote one, was that of a shed attached to an abandoned tin mine. There was nobody in the shed and they were trying to trace the last occupant.
It took them another whole day to do this, and it was 5 p.m. on Thursday before the local inspector called Warton.
The former occupant of the shed was an artist called Wilson M. Ricketts, now living with another artist, a Belgian. ‘Queer as a coot,’ the inspector said, ‘and very annoyed, sir, I can tell you.’ It seemed that W.M. was known as Willie, and he had lived for a period with Colbert-Greer. To show his contempt for him, and while intoxicated, he had sent him £200 as rent, and was infuriated that he should now put the police on him for more. ‘He said that in his letter he promised to pay him the wages of a whore. You know, sir,’ he apologized, ‘we have some funny ones here.’
‘Very good. Much obliged to you, Inspector,’ Warton said dully. ‘And nice work.’
He paused a while after hanging up and looked at Summers, who had been listening with him. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘give him his money back.’
‘Still keep the tail on, sir? We’re a bit pushed.’
‘No, no,’ Warton said. ‘This never looked like his work. You can take the tail off him. It’s Artie or little Steve, Summers, for certain.’
So the tail was taken off Frank, and his money returned; and at six-thirty that Thursday he popped in to Chez Georges and gave it back to Artie again.
Artie, rather sombre, was in the kitchen.
*
On Friday morning, Artie reported to the labs, and paid in his £200, and got the film.
They were shamefaced at the labs, but he didn’t bother with them. They had to be used, like everything else.
He took the cans, and dropped them in to Steve at Blue Stuff.
Pressure was needed now. Steve would edit what he could of the film. Artie had to organize showings. They needed money, and soon.
Artie thought that money would turn up soon. But he didn’t want the police breathing down his neck when it did. So he worked hard all day; and brooded while he worked. Some aspects of Steve worried him.
*
Steve was thinking along parallel lines.
Some aspects of Artie worried him. When he got home that evening, he swore.
Artie had brought him the cans, but he hadn’t brought the editing gear. This stuff was at Artie’s flat: Putney. He was tired, but he immediately phoned Artie and went to the restaurant to get the key.
It wasn’t an amicable visit. Albert the chef was limping around swearing in the kitchen, and he gave Steve a burst of passionate French.
‘What’s that about?’ Steve said.
‘People in his kitchen. Frank was here yesterday. Screw him. Anyway, don’t forget to leave the key under the mat.’
‘Okay.’
Steve pushed off to Putney, thoughtfully. No word of apology from Artie at forgetting the gear. But he kept calm. He had work tonight and needed all the freshness he could muster.
He let himself into Artie’s flat, and picked up the gear. It was in a box, and as he hefted it off the shelf a folder sticking to the underside fell to the floor, spilling papers.
Steve put the box down and bent to pick them up, and paused. The papers were sheets of sketches and dialogue. A closer inspection showed it was an alternative version of the script.
Alternative ideas for the script had always been discussed.
These ideas hadn’t been discussed.
Steve took off presently with the editing gear, leaving the key under the mat, and caught a cab at Putney Bridge.
He thought hard in the cab about what he had just seen.
*
An hour later, Artie suddenly thought of it, too, and his stomach knotted up.
He’d meant to lock the folder in a drawer. He’d meant to deliver the editing gear himself. He kept making these slips. He remembered that Steve had had to remind him, when they were running from Denny’s, that they had an appointment with him. It was Steve who had cautioned that they might be searched. On his own he made too many slips.
He felt engulfed in a huge wave of depression, and wondered how he was going to manage.
It was a late night in the restaurant.
The presence of the tail outside maddened Artie.
It was late, very late, before he finally got to bed, in his back bedroom in Putney. It was actually Saturday morning.
23
THERE’D been a bit of rain in the week which had brought the slugs out, so on Saturday Warton got down to them. They were busy at his wallflowers, so he baited heavily there. He observed a persistent slug turning steadily from the bait. He watched it for a while, and deployed cunning.
Slugs didn’t like fingers. Warton gave it a finger. He laid it on the soil, and saw the slug change direction away from it, and did it again, and continued doing it, until the small creature made its own way to the bait.
That was the way of it. He could have crushed it easily. But why should he, when with encouragement the little bastard did the job by itself? Finesse.
‘Teddy – phone!’ Rose called.
Eh? First Saturday morning he’d had off for three weeks. He made haste to the house and took the phone.
‘Okay,’ he said after listening, ‘coming in. Let Chief Inspector Summers know.’
He hopped out of his gardening togs, and in ten minutes was heading along the Purley Way into town.
Summers, coming only from Clapham, was ahead of him.
He already had the Oxford out, and at the right place, alongside the message, on his desk. The message simply said:
Sing Hey to you –
Good day to you.
Warton followed Summers’s finger to the full quote:
Sing ‘Hey to you – good day to you’ –
Sing ‘Bah to you – ha! ha! to you’ –
Sing ‘Booh to you – pooh, pooh to you’.
‘Patience’.
W. S. Gilbert.
‘Of Gilbert and Sullivan, sir,’ Summers informed him.
Warton stared at it. ‘A two-liner,’ he said. ‘It looks hurried. When was it posted?’
‘Late last night. So the postman thought, anyway. It was top of the pile when he opened the box, first collection this morning. Street box, back of Putney.’
‘W.S.G.,’ Warton said, and mused. ‘Summers, is the litde shit having us on?’
‘Which little – Oh.’
‘Get his cards.’
The cards on GIFFARD, Walter Stephen were brought in, and Warton spent some time studying them. Then he studied those on JOHNSTON, Arthur and COLBERT-GREER, Frank.
One of the three had sent it. And each one, without question, knew he would be familiar with the initials. He was being had. He was being taunted.
The Liverpool police had provided several fresh entries on Artie. He had a bit of form there; in younger days a tearaway, the odd charge of violence.
Colbert-Greer’s cards he knew like the back of his hand, so he didn’t bother with them overmuch.
Again he studied Giffard’s.
‘Well, I’m damned if I know,’ he said.
‘If it’s him, sir, he’s playing with us. If it isn’t –’
‘– he’s next on the list.’
‘Sailing a bit near the wind – these initials.’
Warton brooded. ‘Get him,’ he said.
Steve was brought out of a crowded shop.
He was no less collected than when Warton had seen him last, but a trace of strain showed under the cockiness.
Warton watched him carefully.
‘Have you run into any trouble lately?’ he said.
‘Well, I could do without a few of these conversaziones, Chief. Tend to dislocate the day, you know. And the night. Or have you got something else in mind?’
‘I’m asking if you’re aware of any conflict with a particular individual – personal, professional, emotiona
l. Any reason you might have to suspect anyone of meaning you harm.’
Steve paled; Warton saw it.
‘You haven’t had one of these messages about me, have you?’
‘Why should you think that?’
‘Well, I read the papers. If you call me in and – Is that it?’
‘That’s it,’ Warton said. ‘Anyone you can think of?’
He saw the young shit thinking.
‘No,’ Steve said at last.
The colour had drained from him.
‘In that case I must offer you protection.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘An officer will follow you.’
‘Uniformed?’
Oh yes; cocky to the last. Warton had seen from the reports that Steve was aware of being followed.
‘That’s it,’ Warton said. ‘Wherever you go, he’ll go with you. Twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Togetherness,’ Steve said.
He managed quite a cool smile.
Warton watched the door after he had left.
What the hell, he wondered, was going on here?
*
Steve was sure he’d betrayed no emotion, but he was in a state of some turmoil. He wondered how secure the protection was. He was glad, looking out during the course of the day, to see the copper there.
A different one followed him home, and after a shower and a meal, he put in six solid hours at the editing. The stuff wasn’t bad. They had over-compensated at the labs for the under-lighting, so that it looked now flash-lit and grainy. But the green tone would cover it. He saw Abo in the crowd scenes. Abo. He suddenly remembered that he’d meant to contact Abo. He hadn’t by any means given up Abo as a useful contributor. Well, he’d call him tomorrow.
He compared and cut and spliced till two in the morning, and then packed in. He was tempted to take a breath of air to see if his protection was still there, but he knew it would be, and he had a splitting headache, so he went to bed.
He took a short walk in Battersea Park after breakfast on Sunday morning, and the policeman took a stroll behind him. Then he got back to it again.
He was interrupted by calls to the phone out in the hall during the course of the morning. It was Frank and Artie calling to confirm the time for the evening. He didn’t know if he was going to be through by eight, but he told them the time still stood. The stuff was looking terrible to him now, and it depressed him. But this was a familiar enough reaction after the long grind. He had put in four hours on Friday night, six on Saturday, and already three by lunchtime on Sunday.
The Chelsea Murders Page 14