The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  After lunch he took a break and went out to buy sandwiches and beer for the evening, his faithful attendant following; and after a nap huddled again over the viewer. By seven he was dizzy with it, so he stopped and had a drink and put a few records on the player. The sound of Elton John blasting out revived him a bit, and when he returned to the viewer the stuff looked much better. Also there wasn’t so much of it left: the final crowd scenes, bobbies strolling. He saw Abo.

  Abo. He remembered he’d planned to phone him. It was just gone half-past seven. He had a wash and threw the towel on the bed, and collected himself, and went out to the hall. He wondered where Abo would be. The others would already be on the way.

  *

  Artie had been on the way for some time. All day he had been oppressed by the presence of his tail, so he thought he would give him a trot. He was out early, walking from Putney High Street the full length of the New King’s Road.

  The pubs had opened, and when he got to Stanley Street he thought he’d have one at The Gold Key. With no surprise at all, he saw that within a couple of minutes his tail was in there with him: buying himself a lager-and-lime in the saloon, where he could keep an eye on him across the bar.

  Artie chatted a while with the landlord, Logan, and sipped his pint, and presently placed it down. ‘Watch that,’ he asked him. ‘Just going for a leak.’

  The tail waited two minutes and went for a leak himself.

  The Gents’ was empty. He tried the outer door and found it unlocked, and went frantically out. Stanley Street was empty, too. The tail hared round the corner into the King’s Road. But Artie wasn’t there, either.

  *

  Steve’s first coherent thought, on finding himself safely back on his own side of the door again, with the thing slammed and the chain on, was that he had better get a tourniquet quickly. Blood was simply pouring out of him. With his left hand he felt in his right pocket and took out a handkerchief and got it round the arm, above the elbow. He screwed the handkerchief tight, and looked at the blood still coming out, and heard himself sobbing a little. The blood was all down his shirt and trousers. It had soaked into the carpet by the door.

  He could hardly believe it had happened. The students were in the refectory, eating. A few might be drifting back by now, or they might not … He thought of his protection out at the front. Great protection.

  Grills had been fitted to all the windows at the back in the past few weeks, and his bedroom and bathroom were there, so he thought this ought to be all right. The curtains were drawn in his bedroom, and he found the towel on the bed there, and wrapped it round.

  After a minute or two he thought he had better get water on it, and went to the bathroom, and ran the cold tap and put his forearm under. The blood swilled away under the jet, streaking his hand and the bowl. He could feel it hurting now, the lips of the wound gaping. He was cut almost to the bone. He had barely felt it before; just a quick keen slice.

  He didn’t know if it was such a great idea to hold the wrist under water. He could lose an armful of blood. He held the arm up and swathed it round with the towel again, and got another towel, and wrapped that round, too.

  He was confused by the noise from the record-player. Elton John was still blasting away. It hadn’t occurred to him to turn it down, and he went and did so now, and looked around bewildered. His clips of film were still hanging from the makeshift hooks; the viewer still on. He switched it off, and tried to think what to do. Someone had to turn up soon.

  He thought he heard a movement outside. It could be students returning from dinner, but he wasn’t sure so he waited, listening, and presently there was a tap on the door.

  He said breathily, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Frank, Steve.’

  It sounded like Frank.

  ‘Are you alone, Frank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see a policeman as you came in?’

  ‘A what?’ Frank said.

  ‘There’s a copper out there, Frank. He’s either in the garden or on the street. Will you go and get him?’

  ‘Steve – are you all right?’ Frank said, after a pause.

  ‘Just go and get him, Frank.’

  ‘All right,’ Frank said, in a strange voice, and went.

  Steve waited with his arm in the air. The outer towel had begun to turn slowly pink. Now he could feel it; it had really started now. He felt suddenly very sick.

  ‘Steve?’

  ‘Have you got him?’

  ‘I’m here. What’s the trouble?’ said another voice.

  Steve clumsily released the safety catch and opened the door. A huge policeman in a helmet looked curiously in; Frank lankily peering behind him.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ Frank said, staring at his enormous towel-wrapped hand, and the bloodstains.

  Steve tottered back a few steps and sat down suddenly. ‘Get me a glass of water, Frank. I was attacked,’ he said to the policeman.

  ‘What – when?’ the man said.

  ‘Minutes ago.’

  ‘But he’s the only one come in,’ the policeman said.

  ‘He came in the back,’ Steve said.

  ‘It’s locked at the back.’

  ‘Okay,’ Steve said, and thirstily drank the water Frank brought him. ‘That’s where he was, anyway. I went out to use the phone, and he was at the back door, at the rear of the hall. I don’t know if he was coming or going.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Oh, well, Christ,’ Steve said. ‘He had a cape on. He was all wet.’

  ‘It isn’t raining out there.’

  ‘Look, hadn’t you better go and get some policemen?’ Steve said. ‘He could still be here.’

  The policeman couldn’t get any joy out of his walkie-talkie inside, so he went out.

  ‘Shut that door, Frank,’ Steve said, ‘and lock it.’

  Frank did this.

  ‘And the safety catch.’

  He did this, too, and said, ‘Do you want a drink, Steve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christ, so do I,’ Frank said.

  He poured a couple of Scotches. The constable rapped on the door as he handed Steve his.

  ‘It’s open, the back door,’ the man said, on admittance.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I just – turned and saw him,’ Steve said. ‘I thought it was some sort of joke. He had this mask on.’

  ‘Stocking mask?’

  ‘No, a mask. It was that one of ours, Frank – something like it, anyway. It seemed a bit different. It was all wet, all of him, this sort of cape, and boots. Rubber boots. It’s funny how you react.’ The drink had worked immediately on him. He felt light-headed. ‘You feel crazy, just running. I mean, he didn’t do anything. I ran, though. I ran like hell.’

  ‘So would I,’ Frank said.

  ‘He came after you?’ the policeman said.

  ‘When I started running. I mean, I don’t know if he would have done. I’d left the door a bit ajar, thank Christ. I got in and closed it, but he was right there, and he pushed it in. I mean, I got the safety catch on, but he whacked down through the gap.’

  ‘With a knife?’

  ‘It wasn’t a fairy wand,’ Steve said. ‘Christ!’ He supported the arm. ‘Have they got a doctor coming?’

  ‘I told them you were injured,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Wow!’ Steve said, rocking it a bit. ‘It wasn’t actually a knife, though,’ he added, hissing, after a moment. ‘It was something like a little – saw. I think. I only just glimpsed it.’

  ‘Could you give a description of him, like height or build, eyes, anything like that?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Steve said. ‘After a bit. This thing is going like hell.’

  ‘Okay, leave it for now. Sorry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind another drink,’ Steve said.

  ‘You’re awfully pale, Steve,’ Frank said. ‘Like a sheet. Do you think you’d better?’

 
; ‘I’ll have a drag, then.’

  Frank lit him one, and soon afterwards the first police car arrived. Artie arrived at about the same time.

  Steve saw his face peering in behind the detectives.

  ‘What happened?’ Artie said.

  *

  The police checked the house rapidly. The huge Victorian mansion had its four storeys partitioned into thirty-six individual bed-sitters. Most of the rooms were locked, the students still in the refectory. When they had checked lists, and found out who was out, and who should be in, only one room remained to be investigated. It was on the top floor and occupied by a Dutch girl known as Grooters.

  The police car hadn’t brought a doctor, though one was on the way, so Steve went up with the investigating party.

  Grooters had evidently been doing a bit of ironing. The electric iron had been knocked off the table and had burnt a triangle in the carpet. It would have burnt Grooters’s head, if it was there, but it wasn’t. Instead, it had set frothing and hissing the large bog of blood left by her head. Her head was nowhere in the room.

  The girl’s plumpish trunk was lying on its front, her black slip raised but her underwear undisturbed. Her fluffy slippers had come off. Large bloody footsteps led to the bathroom, and water was running there; the shower was full on, and so was one of the taps in the hand-basin. In the basin was the head. One of the detectives picked it up. Only one of the blue eyes was closed in a kind of leery bedraggled wink. The man looked at the face for a moment, and put it back in the basin again.

  Apart from the two detectives, Steve had been the only one allowed in the room, and hearing the sound coming out of him, one of the detectives quickly hurried him out.

  ‘Not here,’ he said urgently. ‘Mustn’t disturb anything.’

  Steve was sick outside on the landing.

  When they had got him, white and shaking, downstairs, Summers had arrived. He had not hurried immediately upstairs, but was going through the bursar’s list, which the caretaker had supplied. The dead girl had signed herself in, in the Continental manner, surname first, groot, which was why she was afterwards nicknamed Grooters. But her full name, he saw, was Wilhelmina Sonje Groot. Yes, W.S.G.

  When Warton arrived, twenty minutes later, it was the first thing he wanted to know, too.

  24

  THE full conference was on Wednesday, three days later. The story was a world one now, and Warton felt himself on trial. He had eaten no breakfast and was pale; and also, Summers thought, dangerous; so he kept his own activities discreet.

  ‘Both psycho reports, sir.’

  ‘Summaries! Not reading out that bloody lot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And cards?’

  ‘Don’t want cards. Photos.’

  ‘In, sir. You’ve got them.’

  Warton knew he was snapping, and tried not to. Keep calm, he told himself. His handling couldn’t be faulted – not by anyone who knew anything.

  He had written himself a brief note with headings, and he needed time to prepare, so he said, ‘Okay, Summers. Watch the clock.’

  With Summers gone, he lit a cigarette and concentrated on the headings.

  Initials theory.

  How theory leaked & to whom.

  Why early suspects ditched.

  Work on Mrs Honey, Wu & Dutch girl.

  Why last is key case. Explain girl.

  Yes. He marshalled his thoughts. From the Dutch police and local inquiries, he now had a pretty full picture of her.

  A loner, almost friendless. Family relationships in Holland not good, accounting for her presence in England. In the last four months her mother had written four times; the girl had replied once.

  She had no known intimates, either at the hostel or at school. Rarely went out. Also rarely missed a meal. How the fact that she had missed one that night, together with her evident preparations for going out, suggested that, unusually, she had a date.

  He’d tackle the date question later.

  Shrink’s findings first: how the fellow had surmised, from her Dutch and British medical records, that a girl of this type would almost certainly have one intimate. She was secretive: kept no diary or letters.

  Dutch police’s efforts at tracing intimate.

  At the London end, on possible ‘date’, briefly recount the policy on the Press, with a nod at the C.C.

  The C.C.’s mode of disposing of the crap on his plate had struck Warton as particularly impressive. He had simply called in all media heads and distributed the crap among them. He had outlined the scope of the problem and the need to prevent panic. He had admitted that notes were being received and regretted his inability to give details on the grounds that imitative ones would foul investigations.

  He had said he had no intention of applying for censorship, relying instead on their responsibility; in return for which he would share every scrap of information that would not vitally impede police inquiries.

  And this they had done. They had immediately given them Chen’s note; and very useful, too, in Warton’s view; money a fruitful source of dissension among thieves.

  The girl’s possible date was an even better story, and it had been widely used. But no date had shown up.

  Yes. He continued with the list.

  Theories on date.

  How girl ‘set up’.

  Materials cached.

  Reasons for lopping (shrink).

  Money.

  Permissions wanted.

  Summers knocked. ‘Time, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  He kept calm. He knew he was quite normal.

  Summers thought he looked so sick, he wondered if he’d throw up before he got to the car.

  Case in hand, all quite normal, Warton went down to the staff car and sat in the rear. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  He saw the fellow looking at him twice.

  Just as the car turned into the forecourt of New Scotland Yard, his stomach gave a single heave.

  *

  He’d met the Commissioner and the Assistant Commissioner, of course. Bloody full house, though: C.C.; all crime commanders; several chaps of his own rank pulled in from other cases.

  But he kept calm. He saw a carafe and glass had been placed ready for him; expected to speak for some time, evidently. Well, he would.

  He spoke for over an hour.

  After the first ten minutes, he knew it was all right.

  He walked through the initials theory. He swung into the theories on the girl’s possible ‘date’.

  If the murder had been planned to take place in the room, and the elaborate preparations indicated that this was the case, the murderer had to ensure that she would be there at a time when everyone else was eating. He would have arranged this time with her; he would have told her not to eat first. He would have ‘set her up’.

  The preparations had certainly been elaborate. Three keys copied: one to the back door of the hostel, one to the room adjoining the girl’s, and one for the partition door between the two rooms. The suspect with easiest access to the keys (which were available and labelled in the caretaker’s small room, normally locked) was Steve Giffard; indicating that, he, too, had been set up.

  ‘Just one moment, Ted.’ It was Battersby. Warton wasn’t put out. Battersby had written the highly esteemed internal reports for the Yard on several complex provincial cases, and Warton respected him. ‘You haven’t, I’m sure, overlooked the possibility of this Steve “protecting” the culprit – despite the attack on him.’

  Warton nodded. ‘No, I haven’t. You mean an arrangement of some kind between Steve and the murderer, with the attack on him as part of it? Well, if so, I think we can say something went wrong with the arrangement. It needed sixteen stitches. This doesn’t mean there wasn’t one, of course. It could have gone wrong. Or it could have gone sour, with the chap trying to do for Steve to protect himself.

  ‘Possible. I’ll explain later why I don’t buy it – and the same with the idea of his “protecting” the other guy, that
is, by falsifying his account to conceal the chap’s identity. Let’s just take the attack on him again.’

  He gave Steve’s account of it: his trip out to the hall, his first glimpse of the dripping figure in mask, cape and boots at the rear door; his dash back to his own room; the small hand-saw type of implement that had sliced through the gap in the doorway.

  ‘There are two interesting points here. First, the weapon wasn’t a saw. The forensic evidence shows that the head was severed with a cleaver, Continental type – sharp cutting blade with a round serrated end. Almost certainly he was attacked with the same weapon. We’ve done some studies. Steve is a smallish chap, just over five foot six. From his angle, and in that light, the end of such a cleaver, if wielded by a chap over half a foot taller does appear as something like a saw.

  ‘Secondly, his description of the figure, and the amount of detail he gives … I’m not talking about the cape and boots, of which we knew nothing. We have to take his word on that. But on the mask itself, particularly the neck, his account is identical with Mrs Honey’s, even to the differences she noted between the one on the film and the one she saw. If you’ll just look at – photo number five …’

  He had distributed the blow-ups of the film frames.

  ‘… you’ll see it’s quite an elaborate job. It sits on the shoulders, secured at the back. You will notice the long swan-like neck. Well, there was nothing swan-like about the chap who attacked Mrs Honey. She said the neck was short and thick. Steve Giffard told me the same. There’s a reason for this,’ he said, noting the puzzled frowns coming at him.

  He paused and shuffled through the prints.

  ‘Photo three gives a better idea. The wearer is, in fact, a woman, and the mask was designed for her. Colbert-Greer told me she simply had a long neck – so the mask has since evidently been altered. Also that enormous hair style. In a later scene of the film, the girl has to take the thing off. Underneath she has an even bigger hair style. The construction of the mask takes into account this big hair style.’