The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  And therefore when her Aunt returned,

  Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

  ‘Cautionary Tales’

  Hilaire Belloc.

  Warton was silent for some time.

  ‘Get the cards,’ he said, at last.

  There were no gaps in the cards this time. H.B. immediately became flesh as Mrs Hester Bulstrode. Her cards produced several other cards. All concerned the inflammation risk of a boiler on the premises.

  Frank’s premises.

  ‘Damn it, he can’t get much nearer the wind!’ said Summers.

  Warton brooded a long time.

  ‘I am not pulling him in,’ he said. ‘I am not! The Yard can go and take a running –’

  He heard Summers coughing, and looked up to find him glancing significantly at Mason.

  ‘Okay, lad. Get off,’ Warton said.

  ‘If there’s anything I can –’

  ‘Get off.’ His head was down, menacingly low.

  After Mason had gone, he said, ‘Where was it posted?’

  ‘New King’s Road, sir. Not a hundred yards from his house.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After four. That was the last collection.’

  ‘And the tails went on at five, eh?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Timing, you see,’ Warton said. ‘Well, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Playing with us. Wants us to pull him in. Why?’

  Summers blew down his pipe.

  ‘I am bloody not doing it,’ Warton said with soft violence. ‘End of the day, he’ll be laughing at us … Where is he?’

  ‘Got a lecture at the art school this morning, sir.’

  ‘Check the house, then. Use the earlier complaint.’

  ‘And inform the Yard?’

  Warton quietly swore. ‘Tell them, and the decision’s not ours.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this charge, sir. There’s the marijuana.’

  ‘I know it. So does he … What the hell is he playing at?’

  He stared hard at the few lines of type, trying to will the meaning.

  ‘He’s got something going, Summers. Pull him in, and it will happen then.’

  ‘Can’t leave the old lady at risk, sir.’

  ‘He’s figured that … Anything with the bloody landladies?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. It’s still early.’

  Warton sat hunched and smouldering.

  ‘We’re being crowded, Summers. Being directed into this.’ He could see the slug on the soil, and his own finger directing it to the bait. ‘It’s a fix. And just when things are going for us. Well, goddam it – if he tries to go back, take him in. Have to.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Meanwhile give Munich a nudge every hour. And watch the bloody mail. There’s a landlady somewhere, Summers.’

  ‘Somewhere,’ Summers said.

  All morning he watched the mail, and sent a party to the house, and every hour gave Munich a nudge; and to his relief was not prodded into action on the Colbert-Greer front. After his lecture Frank went to the British Museum; and the boiler turned out to be in perfect condition, and Munich grew increasingly irritable at the nudges.

  Late in the day they came up with information, however.

  HEEMSKERK. HAS LETTERS FROM GROOT. SHE AGREES RETURN MUNCHEN MORGEN. NEEDLESS YOU CALL. WE CALL YOU MORGEN.

  ‘Morgen, eh?’ Warton said. ‘Well, he’ll stay here till Morgen.’

  Frank was below in the lockup. At five o’clock he’d tried to go home. Scotland Yard had been informed. Marijuana was the charge. He didn’t seem unhappy.

  That was the situation at seven o’clock when Mooney found the room.

  *

  She couldn’t all at once believe it. It was Tuesday, her late day, and she’d raced through it to start again. Right away, at the very first house, Sevastopol Street, it had happened. She’d been there twice already, without raising the landlady, a Mrs Ruddle. She didn’t raise her this time, either. An old fellow with a pipe, evidently Ruddle, came to the door.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Mooney said, ‘if the room was still available.’

  Ruddle took his pipe out. ‘Well, you’re quick,’ he said. ‘Did you get it from the card?’

  The card took a minute or two to work out. He’d apparently put one in the window of a local newsagent’s that morning.

  The Biffy routine took longer.

  ‘Biffy?’ he said and stared at her. ‘Would that be Mr Freer, then? … Skinny chap, glasses, pops in and out.’

  ‘It could be,’ Mooney said, with her heart lurching. ‘Is he – is he in now?’

  The man glanced briefly down the passage, apparently at a fanlight, before turning back. ‘No, he’s gone. Went yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday! Was he the – did he apply for the room after an advert in the Gazette, three or four weeks ago?’

  ‘That’s right. He didn’t use it much, but –’

  ‘Can I come in?’ Mooney said.

  ‘We’re a bit untidy. The wife’s ill, and –’

  ‘What –’ flu?’ Mooney said, sympathetically prodding him inside. ‘And looking after yourself, I expect, poor man.’

  ‘Well, I am, but –’

  ‘Oh, this is nice. Homely,’ Mooney said, looking around with approval at the fairly stinking little hovel. Rotting antlers abounded on discoloured walls.

  ‘Who is it?’ gurgled an old voice from above.

  ‘For the room!’

  ‘Well, tell them – tell them –’ came the voice before subsiding into a terrible fit of sneezing.

  ‘It’s not convenient now,’ the old chap said.

  ‘But since I’m here,’ Mooney said, ‘I’d just love a peep.’

  ‘You see, it’s not actually –’

  ‘Fred – tell them – tell them –’

  ‘You keep quiet, Mother! I’ll be up. Anyway, it’s gone,’ he told Mooney, ‘so there isn’t any point.’

  ‘Gone? But you just put the card in,’ Mooney said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done. The wife had took a deposit, which I didn’t know. Came in the post. And now the letter’s gone off, and we have the cheque, so it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘But I’m here,’ Mooney said indignantly. ‘And what’s a deposit? He probably sent twenty others. That cheque could be stopped by now.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Easily. There’s a lot of it going on.’

  ‘But – it’s untidy, anyway, what with the wife –’

  ‘I could have a peep, couldn’t I, get an idea? Which one is it, first along?’

  ‘No. Second. But I –’

  ‘Fred – Fred – tell them it’s – it’s –’

  ‘You keep still, Mother!’

  You bloody freeze, Mother, Mooney silently advised. ‘What – this one?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Oh, it’s just right,’ Mooney said, briskly opening the door and switching on the light. And so it was. The first glimpse, the first sniff, had told her. A faint sweetish smell hovered about the place, with something rather cloying and acrid behind it. The room had been left in a hurry, a door of the rickety wardrobe ajar, one drawer of a lopsided chest still open. The bed was made up but apparently unused.

  ‘Just like him. Always in a hurry. Popped in and out, did he?’

  ‘Yes. Funny customer. His room, of course, so he could do what he liked with it, but – Oh, sorry. Your friend.’

  ‘No. He is funny,’ Mooney said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t even know how to describe him. How would you?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t sleep here, so I never met him.’

  ‘But your wife’s surely –’

  ‘Fred – Fred!’ came the old gurgle, now in considerable rage. ‘I want you – I want –’

  ‘You see, it isn’t convenient now,’ Fred said.

  ‘Well, I’ll just jot my name and address,’ Mooney said, ‘while you see what she wants. I’ll be all right here.�
�

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘Is there a lemon in the house?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Her throat. I can hear it. Or tea with a spot of something in it. No milk. See if she wants it. I’ll be here.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude –’

  ‘Fred – are you – are you – bloody deaf, Fred? I want –’

  ‘You’ll have her up all night, you know,’ Mooney said, pursing her lips and shaking her head, ‘unless you see to her, For goodness’ sake.’ She had begun slowly writing Mrs Tizack’s name and Mrs Thatcher’s address.

  Fred was looking somewhat flummoxed as he set off in the direction of the bronchial explosions. Mooney set off on a rapid circuit of the room.

  Wardrobe empty. Chest of drawers empty. Nothing under the pillow, mattress, or bed. The acrid element in the smell seemed to come from below a small table near the curtained window. A small metal bin stood there. There was ashtray rubbish and burnt paper in it.

  She looked rapidly about for something to pour it into. There was nothing in the room, so she swiftly opened her handbag, and just at the last moment paused. A few sizeable bits of paper were at the bottom of the bin, parts of a sheaf that had been torn in quarters and burnt; not evidently thoroughly enough. She picked out fragments that came whole and had them in her bag by the time the footsteps returned.

  Fred was in a tougher frame of mind on returning.

  ‘You’d better go now,’ he said. ‘And the milkman cashed that cheque, same time as he took the letter to the post for the wife, so no problem there. If you want to leave a name and address you can. But they go like hot cakes, these rooms, so a deposit would be better.’

  Mooney said she thought she’d just leave her name and address; and inside a couple of minutes was pedalling home. The few words she’d made out on the paper indicated that Fred’s lodger was a funny customer indeed.

  She put the fragments together on the kitchen table and sat and pored over them. A large irregular hole had been burnt out of the middle, but the drift was clear enough:

  Dear Sirs,

  I am not a racist and have never held with

  sending the blacks believe

  in live and have to

  learn how to like toilets

  and dustbins one

  here who dumps not

  right. I see Colston

  Street, bottles & carnival

  mask, like children is a

  Big Head (!!!) and no

  talking, so it is for the Authoroties and not

  ordinory Respectible People to See him Off.

  An Englishman and Proud of It.

  Three of the fragments were the same; earlier or later attempts. The thing was a draft: word order identical, the only difference in hand-writing or spelling. Fred’s lodger had worked carefully to produce a semi-literate accusation against someone; against a black from the Colston Street area.

  Artie lived in Colston Street.

  Mooney saw the pattern suddenly, and it wasn’t such a terrific surprise, but her heart was thumping so she gave herself a stiff brandy before calling Artie.

  There was no reply from Artie, so she tried the restaurant. The restaurant said Artie wasn’t working that night. She hung up, and tried Steve. There was no reply from Steve.

  All this time Frank was in the lockup but Mooney didn’t know it, or the matter might have seemed less urgent to her. As it was she gnawed her nails and tried out a few intros for the story of a lifetime; and at half-hourly intervals tried the pair again.

  But she gave up at one o’clock and went to bed, her brain racing. On this night of all nights, where the hell were they?

  *

  On this night Steve and Artie had suddenly, almost unbelievably struck lucky. Isaacs, the distributor, had a colleague in town from Los Angeles. In the afternoon he’d organized a showing of what they’d done so far, and the man was crazy about it. ‘Oh, the kids will love it!’ he exclaimed.

  He had become so expansive he’d invited them to dinner, and after dinner he wanted to see it again.

  Isaacs had a small projection room at his home in St John’s Wood, and around midnight they’d sat and watched it again. Artie was by now very nervous and too ready to explain some of the shortcomings, but the man had cut him off. ‘Kiddo, relax. You’ve really got something – a whole new line of gags. What do you need for completion?’

  In the cab going home, Artie said, ‘Am I dreaming?’

  ‘Am I?’ Steve asked. I’ll tell you one thing – that’s where the heroes come from.’

  The hero had guaranteed them completion. He’d put down ten thousands dollars already. After the sums they’d worked with, it was almost overkill.

  *

  Very early in the morning, Mooney got Artie.

  He couldn’t at first understand what she was talking about.

  ‘What time is it?’ he said.

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Shit, I’ve hardly slept. What’s so urgent?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now, but believe me it is.’

  He was blinking himself awake. On his bedside pad he’d made a few notes before hitting the pillow.

  ‘Make it at one, then,’ he said. He had nothing for one, lunch-time. The pad was solid both sides of one. Ten thousand to spend!

  ‘One? Look, I’ve got to see you right away!’

  ‘Sugar, right away I’m going back to sleep. Is one good or not? It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Artie,’ Mooney said recklessly. ‘Someone is fixing you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know …’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Artie said crossly. ‘Mary, I’m through with all that. You know the pigs are on this phone? Do you want one o’clock or not?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have it. At my flat.’

  ‘But I’ll be in town then.’

  ‘Please Artie. At my flat!’ Where the tape recorder was.

  Artie stroked his great globe. ‘Well, okay,’ he said. ‘And I got news for you, too. A better story, baby.’

  ‘Great,’ Mooney said, and hung up and called Steve.

  It took longer to get Steve.

  He seemed slightly stupefied when he came to the phone.

  ‘You what?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already spoken with Artie,’ she repeated, ‘and he knows the urgency. He’ll be here by one.’

  ‘Well, okay … I mean, Christ, Mary. It’s a bit early now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Listen – is this line all right?’

  ‘The line?’

  ‘Is it bugged?’

  ‘Bugged?’ he said stupidly. ‘I don’t know. The whole hostel uses it. What are you talking about, Mary?’

  She said, ‘Steve, don’t – just don’t tell Frank about this. I can’t – Look, be here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At my flat!’ she said. She wanted to shake him. ‘At one o’clock. Have you got it?’

  ‘I think so. At your flat. At one. Okay.’

  ‘Be here!’ she said.

  There were a thousand things to do. The Globe had to be alerted. Art department: photos of the house. If enough people were available it might be possible to find where the ‘carnival mask’ had been dumped in the Colston Street area by ‘the black’. There was a bio to be written; also one on his famous father. Oh boy!

  Rapidly sluicing herself under the shower, Mooney thought of all this, and was glad it was still early.

  34

  MRS HESTER BULSTRODE awoke early, wondering if it was her bladder that had wakened her, or the strange smell in the room. Her hand groped for the transistor and switched it on.

  ‘… has again called for union support in its policy of pay restraint. And the weather men promise more rain.’

  Yes, and so they might. It was going cats and dogs out there, she could hear it. Maybe that had affected her bladder. She urgently rose, shrugged herself into dressing-gown and slippers and shuffled out of the room, transistor i
n hand.

  She had her own little bathroom, but there was no lavatory in it. She’d asked the Indian fifty times, had shown him where one could go, wouldn’t mind paying a bit extra for it. And much he cared! She still had to use the public one in the hall. At her age.

  She remembered to shoot the bolt, and sat and listened to correspondents sounding off from all over, Washington, Moscow, Tel Aviv. God knew what they were all up to in the mad world. The only improvement in it was her transistor, which at least let her know things were no better elsewhere.

  It hadn’t really been so urgent, her bladder.

  It must have been the funny smell in the room, then.

  She could still smell it, although it was fainter.

  Strange. The men had come and looked at the boiler yesterday, and hadn’t found anything wrong with it. Must be something wrong with her nose.

  She sniffed and pulled herself together and returned to her room.

  She could definitely smell it. Stronger now. Was it petrol?

  She couldn’t ask the men back again. Not after they’d just been. She wondered if anyone else could smell it.

  No use asking that Colbert-Greer above. The pansy.

  She got back in bed and tossed and turned restlessly.

  A chap was going on about Bangkok.

  Anyway, the young pansy above wasn’t there. She could usually hear his bed creak. She hadn’t heard him last night, either. She never got to sleep herself till about two, dozed and woke; but she always knew when he was there. Him and his boyfriends. What a world.

  There was a man going on about the world food situation.

  She suddenly remembered, a faint crumb of pleasure, that she could make herself a bit of toast for breakfast this morning. The grill hadn’t worked for weeks, but the pansy above had fixed it for her. He’d told her not to use it till today. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all …

  She dozed off, still sniffing, knowing it must be her nose, wondering if she’d feel like breakfast, anyway.

  *

  Frank had porridge for breakfast and sent his compliments to the chef. ‘I’ve not had it since nursery days. Very tasty,’ he told the solid fellow in blue, ‘and just the stuff for lads. I must get his recipe.’

  He was in good spirits, and only regretted that they’d given him a rather hard nylon toothbrush. ‘Have to watch one’s toothy-pegs,’ he’d told this same fellow, who had very slightly bared his own at the remark. ‘But when am I going to see your Superintendent?’