by Thomas Swan
“Have you measured this? It’s an incredible distance for the car to travel considering that it hit then went over that fence.”
“It’s over a hundred feet. A hundred and six to be exact.”
“No wonder he’s dead,” Deats mused aloud.
“It was a woman,” the officer said.
“I got a message that someone from the Yard was killed.”
“It’s a woman, all right. Detective Constable Sarah Evans. She was attached to the Arts and Antiques Squad. We checked early this morning. On special duty with the Royal Library.”
“At Windsor?” Deats asked.
“Been there since August first.”
“Good Christ. One of my oldest friends heads up that operation and he didn’t have the courtesy to tell me they’d spotted someone right under our noses. That’s their bad luck.”
“The girl took an awful beating. It’s a wonder she wasn’t thrown clear of the mess.”
Walter Deats had seen the results of knife killings and motorcycle accidents and knew how difficult it was to accept the sight of a maimed and bloodied victim without feeling an awful sickness deep inside. When he reached the car, they shined a bright light on Sarah’s face. He instructed the officer holding the flashlight to put a sheet over the body. “Set the car upright,” he said quietly. “No point having it look like a circus tragedy.”
Sergeant Randy Pelkinton handed him a clipboard. “Here’s what we’ve come up with so far, Walter. On the surface it looks like she was speeding and lost control at the turn. A few things don’t jibe, but nothing much to put your teeth into. Like we don’t find skid marks, but the road was wet and there’s been traffic over that same stretch. Maybe she dozed off and didn’t have a chance to brake.”
Deats began his own investigation. Notes on a clipboard would be early observations, nothing more. One of the men was searching for fingerprints inside the car. Deats ordered him to look for prints on the outside when the car was dry. He spoke into a miniature tape recorder, capturing his typically terse judgments and the questions still requiring answers. The coroner had not appeared; it always bothered Deats that the medical people were the last to show. It would serve no purpose to have the poor woman declared dead again; that fact was clearly established at 5:30 in the morning when the accident was discovered by a motorcyclist who chose to relieve himself at the very spot the car crashed over the stone fence. Deats wanted an autopsy and knew there would be a minor skirmish over having it performed immediately. It was Saturday. A comment entered into the tape recorder had to do with the fact that Sarah Evans had not been thrown clear of the car in spite of the obvious crashing the car received in the hundred and six feet it traveled. “Seat belt?” was the question to be considered. He noted also that her right foot was actually bent against the accelerator pedal. He would request that the medical people examine the foot. After the pocketbook and contents had been checked for fingerprints, he took it to his car and examined every item, making audio notes as he went along. When he completed the chore, he recorded two final thoughts. First he would phone Elliot Heston, a senior officer in CIP, Scotland Yard. They were old friends and the tragedy was a cheerless excuse to get together. Policy dictated that accidental deaths must be fully investigated and he would assist in whatever way his old friend might request.
His other note was a reminder to choose two men to break the news to Sarah Evans’s family even though Scotland Yard would send their own emissaries. But the accident occurred within the jurisdiction of the Windsor police, and he would send one officer in uniform, the other in his Sunday best. It was an unpleasant assignment that Deats wanted carried out as early in the morning as was practical.
During the drive from the Dukes Hotel to his West Kensington flat, Tony had an opportunity to put the day’s events into some kind of coherent perspective. The very simple task of taking the Leonardo drawing had escalated into the nightmare of killing. Now he faced the challenge of getting into Sarah Evans’s home to purloin potentially incriminating files, then return the drawing to the library. He was cold and tired and angry. But somehow he began formulating a plan for the morning and by the time he fell into a restless sleep a strategy was taking shape.
In the morning before the sun had risen, he sat in front of a mirror, a box of stage makeup before him. Experienced fingers molded pliable putty into a nose somewhat larger than his own, and with a slight bend to it. Over his face and neck he applied a pale cream, blending it carefully into the tiny lines between the putty and his skin. Next he fashioned a pair of bushy eyebrows and glued them in place. With a black liner pencil he drew crow’s-feet about his eyes and furrows across his forehead.
To his beard, hair, and new eyebrows he patted on a white powder and combed some of the whiteness away so as to change the brown to gray. From another box he selected a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles.
Next he assembled an ordinary costume: a plain shirt and tie, gray pants, a mud brown sweater, and over all of it a soiled raincoat. He put on a battered hat with a broad brim, which he pulled to the top of his new, bushy eyebrows. He practiced walking with a stoop and added a limp to his gait. Under his arm he held a flat briefcase. During his transformation he talked to himself, practicing an indistinguishable London City accent bordering on cockney.
From his collection of business cards he chose one that read “Jerome Black, Sales Representative.” Beneath the name: “Usher & Leeds—Computer Professionals.”
At 6:30 it was still nearly dark on the streets. He drove to Heathrow Airport. With his limping, slanting walk he made his way into the terminal and the Godfrey Davis car-rental agent. He handed the attendant a deposit, located the English Ford, then drove across Chelsea Bridge to Battersea. Beyond the huge park with its racetrack and band shell the streets narrowed and came at each other in odd angles. Sarah’s apartment was on Ursala Street off Shuttleworth Road. He parked at the end of the street. The time was 8:20.
He walked slowly, inspecting the cars that passed and those parked along the street. An ambulance, its siren screaming, roared past. He glanced back to his car, wishing he had parked closer. He hoped there would be no cause to leave hurriedly yet realized that when Sarah’s body was identified, all hell would break loose. Even now he might be too late, might encounter a team from Scotland Yard consoling the family. He set his mind on the character he was about to play. He knew the game of masquerade, and he was incredibly good at it. He continued on to the apartment building. He pulled on thin leather gloves as he approached the entrance. He pressed hard on the button under Sarah Evans’s name. Sarah’s flat was on the first floor in the front if he figured correctly. He rang again. He would try a third time, then ring the superintendent. His finger was poised to press one more time when a thin voice came from a recessed speaker.
“Yes, who is it?”
“It’s Jerry Black—Usher and Leeds. Is Miss Evans at home?” He pitched his voice higher and tried to sing the words, dropping h’s and trilling his r’s.
The female voice answered. “No, she’s not home. I hoped you was her saying she lost her keys.”
“She was in our shop a short time ago and asked that we come to look things over before she put in an order. Seemed very important to her. May I come in?”
The little voice did not respond immediately. Then: “She said it was important?”
“I’d say very definitely, ma’am.”
There was another pause. “Come in, then: 100A.”
A buzzer sounded and the door opening into the lobby was unlocked. He climbed a flight of stairs and found 100A. It was at the front overlooking the street, as he had hoped. He tapped on the door and it was opened by a small girl, perhaps five or six, with blond hair falling below her shoulders onto a pink bathrobe. She was holding a small white-and-tan dog of indiscernible lineage, which promptly jumped from her arms and scurried to a corner, where it sat growling.
A short, stout woman appeared behind the little girl. Her face was pleasan
t and she managed a weak smile. “I’m Mrs. Evans’s mother, and this is Cynthia, my granddaughter.”
Tony greeted Sarah’s mother and daughter as if he were milling among the congregation at a church tea. His cordiality lacked eye contact. He flashed his business card and just as quickly slipped it back into his pocket. “Your daughter, ma’am, she was looking to buy a computer for her records and correspondence. She asked that we look over the place where she wants to have it installed.”
“I wish she was here. Oh, heavens, you have no idea how I wish she was here. She didn’t come home last night. And she didn’t call and that’s not like her. She’s in a special kind of work, you see, and I worry about her. Cynthia here, poor child, she’s been cryin’ most of the night.”
“I won’t be takin’ much time, ma’am. If you could show me the room where she does any work when she’s home, that’s probably where she’d want to put it.”
“I wish she had said something to me about all this. She gets so closemouthed at times.”
“Mr. Evans, her husband, would he know?”
“Oh, there isn’t no Mr. Evans anymore. That’s the problem around here. She doesn’t have her man to help.”
“Well, we can sort it out. Is there a desk where she’d be doing some of that work she was tellin’ us about?”
“Yes, there, in her bedroom.”
Tony had surveyed the sitting room and determined it was Cynthia’s playroom. In the bedroom was a desk on which was piled a stack of files, and next to it a typewriter table with an old Olivetti on top of it. “I’m sure this is where she wants to have us put the computer.”
He pulled out a metal tape and began measuring distances from the desk to the windows and to the electrical outlets. He scribbled numbers on a pad. Sarah’s mother and daughter stood in the doorway watching in silent curiosity. He patiently continued, waiting for them to leave. Didn’t they know to leave? Didn’t they know he needed to be alone? Time was passing and he expected the phone to ring or the bell to go off signifying that representatives from Scotland Yard had arrived in the lobby. He turned to Sarah’s mother as he made a pretense of sniffing the air through his putty nose. He asked if he smelled coffee burning on the stove.
Sarah’s mother said the woman next door always burned coffee, but that she did not. “I can brew you a cup if you would like.”
He seized the opportunity. “That would be nice, ma’am.” It would take several minutes to bring water to a boil. Important minutes.
Sarah’s mother started for the kitchen, Cynthia tagging after. “Come with me, Clover,” she said, but the dog took a position inside the door and watched Tony search through the desk.
One drawer was locked. He tried the small keys on the ring he found in Sarah’s pocketbook. The second one fit. He took out a half-dozen manila folders and hurriedly sorted through each. One was marked “Staff,” and in it were brief write-ups on each employee. Another was labeled “Heldwicke.” The name on the first file was Charlie McKean. Quickly he jammed the folder into his zippered briefcase. As he did, he knocked a pen to the floor and it rolled toward Clover. As he reached for it, the dog leaped at his hand. Sharp little teeth punctured the glove and sank into his flesh. “Damn it!” he shouted, and flung the dog against the door. The startled spaniel raced from the room squealing and yapping. He closed the drawer and locked it just as Cynthia ran from the kitchen and chased her pet under the sofa. She sat on the floor and began to cry.
“My God in heaven, what’s the calamity?” The grandmother ran from the kitchen to see Cynthia trying to placate the dog while all the time tears streamed down her reddened face.
“I dropped my pen, and when I went to pick it up, I frightened your dog. It bit my hand, ma’am.” Tony peeled the glove back, revealing two punctures in the skin, one on each side of his scar. Before he could pull his hand back Sarah’s mother saw spots of blood oozing from the teeth marks.
“It’ll be fine,” Tony said, attempting a cheerful tone. “Is your dog all right? I didn’t mean hurting it.” The question was aimed at Cynthia but he was not interested in an answer. He had moved to the window and could see that a black sedan had pulled to a stop directly across the street and two men were about to enter the apartment building.
“Thanks for the coffee but I’d best be gettin’back to work out the details for Mrs. Evans. Please tell her to call when she’s of a mind to have us go ahead.” He stood at the door and looked back at the woman and the little girl, sadness and unhappiness in their faces. In minutes they would learn of the crushing tragedy, but he could not let that be of any consequence. A little smile froze on his face and he said indifferently, “I’ll be going now, and thank you for helping me.”
Through the closed door he could hear the intercom bell ring as the police announced their presence. He ran down the steps and hid in the shadows of the hall until the two men were admitted and began climbing to the first floor. Then he exited to the street and walked toward his car as fast as the crooked limp would permit.
From Battersea Park to St. James Square is a distance of about two miles. Tony covered it in eleven minutes, including a momentary delay caused by a crowd of tourists in front of Buckingham Palace. He was to meet Jonas by the statue of William III. He was early and saw that Jonas was also ahead of schedule. “It’s me, all right,” Tony announced as he shuffled forward. “I got the papers, no problem about that. The police showed just as I was leaving.”
Tony took a copy of the morning Times from Jonas and felt for the thin box in the folds of the paper. He slipped it into a pocket of his raincoat.
“Curtis was a very angry man when I told him to spend the night with the drawing,” Jonas said in a solemn tone. “He’ll presume something’s gone off the track very quickly, so its best you stay away.”
“I’ve got no reason to mix with him. Besides, I’ve got enough to worry about. I’ve thought it through and there will be no Greg Hewlitt after today.”
“If Hewlitt disappears, they’ll know for certain the woman was killed.”
“They may still find it out. Where will that leave me?”
“You made it look like an accident. Now you’ve got all her papers. If you should suddenly evaporate, someone is bound to be curious. Tell your supervisor you have a family matter to settle, that you must be away for several days.”
Tony returned to his rental car and proceeded to Heathrow, claimed his own car, and drove to Windsor. After exiting from the M4 he pulled off the road where he removed his makeup, brushed the powder from his hair, and changed clothes. He proceeded on his usual route to Windsor, aware he would pass the accident scene. As he neared the fatal bend his hands tightened on the steering wheel, causing him to feel a twinge where Cynthia’s dog had bitten him. Flashing red lights atop a wrecker’s truck marked the spot. A dozen or more cars were parked off the road and photographers were using their flashes in the stillmurky light. His pulse beat more rapidly as he drove through the curve.
Approaching the service road leading to the castle, he slowed then, with an abrupt change of mind, stepped heavily on the accelerator. He continued into Windsor Borough and to Kings Road, leading south out of the town. In minutes he was in rolling farmland. He turned onto a narrow, unpaved road and stopped.
He gathered the disguise he had worn earlier, remnants of makeup, and the briefcase containing Sarah’s papers and wrapped it all in the old raincoat. He hid the bundle under a pile of leaves behind a row of shrubs. He removed the right rear tire and replaced it with the spare. He then punctured a hole at the base of the valve stem on the tire he had removed. His last act was to cut the skin on the back of his hand where he had been bitten. The cuts were only deep enough to obscure the marks of the dog’s teeth. He then drove back to Windsor.
The library was empty, save for Reginald Streeter, the punctilious history scholar. He was a gentle man with a puckish face and balding pate. Streeter read voraciously and in midproject would lay out a dozen references, reading
from one source, then another, then finally concentrate on the extensive notes he was compiling in several thick notebooks. His life was wrapped up in the lives of English royalty and his expertise on the subject was widely acknowledged.
Tony spread his engineering drawings on a desk near the new system’s control panel and busied himself rewriting the report he had prepared the previous afternoon. All ducts, compressors, blowers, and controls were installed and the system was receiving its final fine tuning. The room was silent except for the low whir of the compressors.
Tony was surprised by the soft voice of Streeter, who had quietly come to his side: “The weekend is a good time to hear how quietly the new machinery performs.”
“Yes, thank you. We’re pleased about that.”
“Are you just as pleased that the humidity levels are correct and constant? That’s been our big problem, you know.”
“We have good control for the most part, but we’re getting too wide a fluctuation in the rooms with large windows. Some of the new windows weren’t as tightly sealed as specified and that’s something I’m looking into today.” Tony pointed at two windows in the adjacent room. “I’m afraid those are the culprits.”
“My, that’s an angry cut on the back of your hand, Mr. Hewlitt.”
Tony retracted his hand quickly. “It’s nothing. Looks bloody nasty but I only scratched it changing a tire.”
“Wash it clean,” Streeter said amiably. “You don’t want an infection.”
He stepped away, then turned back to Tony. “You have a quite nice accent, Mr. Hewlitt. Accents are a hobby of mine and I place you near Liverpool. Are you a Liverpudlian?”
Tony reacted quickly. “No, I was brought up in Leeds.”
“Surely you spent time in Liverpool when you were young. Perhaps in Manchester?”
“No, Mr. Streeter. Neither city.”
“Then these old ears are playing tricks on me. People are constantly moving about these days, perhaps that’s the problem.” The older man sighed. “Well, I must get back to my unhappy Queen Anne. Such a poor dear she was.”