by John Creasey
“No. We’re making the rounds today.”
“It can’t be too soon for me! What do you make of it, Handsome? I’ve been trying to get everything tidied up so that I’ll know what you’re talking about. Conway’s are running this series of Beauty Contests up and down the country, and the big prize is worth one thousand jimmy o’ goblins with a chance of a three-year contract in the films.”
“That’s it,” Roger said.
“So it’s worth a possible three or four thousand pounds.”
“Easily.”
“Lots of murders have been committed for less than three thousand pounds,” said Turnbull. “Now tell me I’m jumping to conclusions again, and I’ll agree. Still, it’s an angle. Look for the beauty who would bump off all the other beauties so that she’s got an easy passage to the first prize.”
He grinned.
“I’ve been at the Yard so long I can believe anything,” Roger said dryly. “The fact that we’re working together on this doesn’t mean that we have to be together all the time.” He waved at the four photographs of living girls. “Take your choice of two, and find out what you can about the competition they won, will you?”
“Looking for a factor common to them all?”
“Looking for anything that doesn’t fit in the way things should fit in.”
“Okay. And then?”
“Then we’ll watch the new competitions wherever they’re staged,” said Roger, “and check the new winners. The final’s due at Blackpool in the autumn. If there is a final! Conway’s made an offer to call it off this morning—they spoke to the A.C.”
“Turned it down?” Turnbull asked sharply.
“Yes—for the time being, anyhow. This way, we do know where the danger might be.”
“Do we! We’re going to have ourselves a time,” went on Turnbull, and grinned, obviously approving. “Forgetting Beauty Queens, mind if I take your kids out one of these days? Lord’s or the Oval, say.”
“Nice of you,” said Roger. “Why not?” It was a handsome olive branch.
But neither that nor anything else could make them really friendly; it was hard to put a finger on the reason.
Roger saw two of the other Queens. They were nice-looking girls, but not really outstanding.
Turnbull came back from his reconnaissance, grinning with almost satyrish delight.
“Did I pick the winner, Handsome! One of them was just another sweetie pie, but the other—pheee-oooh! I’ve never seen anything on two legs and terra firma to match it. And believe me, I’m a connoisseur. Wait until you see her.”
Roger himself checked on the chief organisers of the competitions. There were three men and a girl. Three, including the girl, worked for Conway’s; the other for Pomerall’s, the advertising agents who had thought up the competition.
All of them would be at a Hammersmith Dance Hall that week for the West London Competition.
Roger and Turnbull had seats near the front of the big hall. Two thousand fans were sitting round the sides. Fifty girls in swim suits stood in the centre, most with praiseworthy grace and composure, and each moved forward to be inspected critically, told to prance up and down, expected to preen herself.
Roger picked out the three men who worked regularly on the competition.
Derek Talbot, sleek, long-haired, wiry yet oddly effeminate, good-looking in an almost feline way, sat with a local civic dignitary and two budding film stars, as advisers to the ‘bench.’ Ushering the girls before the ‘bench’ was a different kind of man altogether, large, ruggedly good-looking, obviously an outdoor man. He was the compere, Mark Osborn; he was also the advertising agency member.
The third man was a different type again, older, quiet, always in the background.
Turnbull had also been probing, and pointed the man out: “Wilfrid Dickerson,” he said, “with the best job of the lot! He has to check their measurements, all the girls have to be within a schedule. Believe it or not, the lovelies prefer a man; they seem to think that a woman would swindle them.”
Dickerson looked grey, ageing, tired.
“I’m told he can tell a fake figure at a glance,” Turnbull grinned. “Amazing what they’ll get up to, isn’t it? Dickerson’s good on facts, anyway—knows the soap business backward and forward. Who wouldn’t take soap as a lifetime’s study, if it leads to measuring luscious lovelies?”
“Where’s the secretary to the group?” asked Roger, dryly.
“The mousy one,” Turnbull said, pointing to a girl near Dickerson. “Hard to believe she’s got a figure at all. I—”
He broke off, staring.
A latecomer hurried to join the competitors, and sight of her silenced Turnbull completely. She made Roger draw in his breath sharply, too.
She moved with a grace which caught everyone’s attention. She was raven-haired, and had a skin that looked so perfect that it could hardly be real. True beauty was in her manner, her unself-conscious walk, and smile and actions. She seemed completely natural. No other competitor had a chance against her; that seemed positive from the moment she appeared.
Turnbull kept staring at her.
“There’s the lassie for my money,” he said very softly.
Roger thought, “I oughtn’t to have had you on this job.”
It was too late to do anything about that now.
Chapter Nine
Regina Howard
Regina Howard put her lipstick into her handbag, and gave Derek Talbot, of Conway’s, a quick, gay smile. It was the evening of the day after she had won the Hammersmith Competition.
She was in her office, one of a small suite in the same building as Conway’s, in Bennis Square, Mayfair, W.I. and was secretary and general factotum of a small fashion agency, pleasant work if not highly paid. She enjoyed it for several reasons. The proprietor was seldom in the office, so she was virtually in charge.
She didn’t know any way of keeping Derek Talbot or Mark Osborn out, for the Competition office was on the same floor. She wasn’t sure that she wanted them out.
“No, Derek, I can’t dine with you tonight. I’m tired, and there’s a lot to do,” she said. “So I’ll eat at home.”
“Avec invalid mother?”
“Can you think of any good reason why not?”
“But, my darling,” cried Talbot, “I can think of a hundred good reasons why you shouldn’t stay in a frowsty flat on a glorious evening in July. You should celebrate last night’s resounding victory—which was always inevitable. And the best way to celebrate is to come for a spin with your humble servant. We ought to dine at Maidenhead or somewhere by the river, then take out a boat. My word on it, I shall not make one attempt to sully your honour!”
Regina laughed.
“I don’t think you would, either, and it sounds heavenly, but no, I can’t.”
“Can’t? Won’t? Is the mère the reason or the excuse to give me the brush-off every time, old gel?”
Talbot had a pleasant voice, a pleasant face, hair which was a little too wavy for a man and a little too long. His clothes were a little too perfect, too. He was tall, slim, svelte. He had once ambitions .to paint, but too little energy to carry it out, and had drifted into the Conway Organisation through its Art Department, designing show cards and packing cartons, and had become the chief liaison with Pomerall & Pomerall, Advertising Agents. With his opposite number at Pomerall’s, the rugged Mark Osborn, he had hatched the Beauty Competition scheme which was catching the eye of the public as few schemes had done before. Both men were in high favour with their respective boards of directors; both were on the crest of a wave.
Both had known Regina Howard for several months, too, and Talbot had urged her to enter for the West London Competition. She hadn’t been keen, but his and her mother’s persuasion had succeeded. Mark Osborn had
n’t made much comment. “Well, is it reason or excuse?” Talbot demanded. “Don’t be silly, Derek.” Regina sounded absent-minded. “Dear old pulchritude,” Talbot said sweetly, “I can’t help being the addle-pate champion of the world. But now and again glimmerings of the old maternal intelligence show up. I mean, substitute Mark for mère. Would I be right?”
Regina stopped by the door of her office, turned and looked fully into the sallow face, and said quite simply, “Derek, if I was going out with Mark and couldn’t see you because of it, I’d say so.” Talbot gulped.
“Oh, lor’! Old foot in the old soup again. Of course you would. Apologies for base suspicions. Blame my infernal internal jealousy. In case I forgot to tell you yesterday, I love you. Passionately, deliriously, wholly, possessively. I think,” continued Derek Talbot, and gave his most gentle smile, “that I would break the neck of any man who threatened to march you off to the altar. Or poison him, or stick a knife in his ribs.”
They walked in silence to the lift. It was empty. The building was large, modern, sumptuous. Now, at half-past six, only a few office workers were there, and some early cleaners. Somewhere a vacuum was humming; otherwise there was no sound.
The door closed hissingly behind them, enclosing them in the shiny solitude of the walnut-veneered lift. Derek Talbot pressed the ground-floor button.
“The horrible thing about that remark of yours,” said Regina, very slowly, “is that you probably mean it.”
“Oh, I do. You have been warned.”
“Derek, I—”
“Say no more, lady,” said Talbot brightly. He slid his arm about her shoulders and gave her a little hug. “See how brotherly I can be towards the wonderful woman who is so full of sisterly love for me.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “As I live,” he declared, “I don’t think Mark’s the right man for you.”
“As I live,” said Regina, trying to make herself sound light-hearted, “I don’t think I’ve met the right man.”
They came to a stop.
“Give you a lift anywhere, ma’am?” asked Talbot, brightly. Outside, he dropped his flippancy, and said quietly, “No regrets, Gina, have you?”
“About what?”
“The competition.”
She said slowly: “I don’t really know. I was never too keen to enter, and now I’ve won this heat, I’m not sure I want to go on.”
“The idiot conscience?”
“Well, is it fair that I know you and Mark and Dickerson? You can influence—”
“Hold it,” Talbot broke in. “The judges are completely independent. If I’d breathed a word in your favour, they’d almost certainly have turned you down. No word was needed, anyhow. You were streets ahead. If I mean streets! And you will be in the final, too. Give yourself a chance, Gina. Why, even your mother wants you to take this one!”
“I’ll think it over,” Regina said. “Thanks, Derek.”
Hers was a very little car. She graced it as she graced everything. Her movements, as she stooped to get inside, had a supple ease. Talbot stood on the pavement of Bennis Square and watched her move off; soon the little car was lost in a stream of traffic. He turned away …
Regina Howard was compelled to drive in line, and for ten minutes she crawled along, and had time to think. Derek worried her. He was too intense by far, there were moments when he almost scared her. One could never be quite sure what his mood would be. The flippancy tonight might well be replaced by an almost vicious, hurtful sarcasm tomorrow. It hadn’t always been like that; this moodiness was something which had developed during the past few months. She didn’t then connect it with the Beauty Competition, because that was just part of his job, and he always seemed completely happy about it. He let nothing interfere with work. The truth about Derek, she reflected as the traffic began to thin out, was that he was ruthless; much more ruthless than most people would suspect. They were fooled by his almost effeminate manners and his fastidiousness in dress into thinking that he was weak willed. Weak – Derek Talbot!
He wanted her to win the final, was absurdly sure that she would, if she went on.
Mark Osborn, who looked a he-man, was much the weaker character in some ways; irresolute over many things. Her, for instance. Yet of the two she preferred Mark and was more content in his company. She had even been wondering if she ought to marry him. That had been in her mind all day – because of a completely new element, a disturbing one she couldn’t understand. Last night at Hammersmith she had seen a man who had almost hypnotised her. A powerful, imposing giant …
She shared a small West London flat with a semi-invalid mother, in a street near the Edgware Road. The houses were tall and narrow, grey-fronted, pleasant. This was a tree-lined backwater, extremely convenient and not too expensive.
She turned the corner, and involuntarily her foot went on the brake.
A low-lying scarlet M.G. stood outside the door of Number 27, her house. That was Mark Osborn’s car. He hadn’t said that he would be calling, she hadn’t expected him. Her thoughts flashed to Derek; if he saw the car here, he would think that she was a liar, and that wouldn’t help the future relationship. It would affect both Derek and Mark, too. They worked together so closely that any estrangement could only be harmful.
She pulled up behind the M.G.
The front door, as always, was unlatched. Hers was the ground-floor flat. As she unlocked and opened the door, she heard her mother say:
“I’m sure she won’t be long, Mr. Osborn, if she’s going to be very late she always telephones me.”
“Trust Gina,” said Mark, in his deep, powerful, and deceptive voice. “Hallo, what’s this?” There were footsteps, and then he appeared at the door of the living-room. His broad, rugged face lit up. “Why, hallo, old girl. Been waiting for you!”
“I can’t imagine why,” Regina said dryly.
“As a matter of fact I want a little chat,” Mark said. “Believe it or not, it’s about business. And your mother says that she’ll forgive me if I carry you off to dinner.”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Howard said.
She was Regina’s height and colouring, she was going grey, and there was a bluish tinge at her lips, sign of an obscure heart complaint. She was subject to fainting fits, too, but none of these things affected her as much as her one great affliction.
The right side of her face was paralysed.
The tragedy of this only became fully apparent when one saw the profile of the left side of her face, which was quite beautiful, even now. That side was normal, too; when she talked her lips moved, she could blink – anyone looking from that side would notice nothing. The right side was like a distorted beauty mask.
She hated to meet strangers, because of this, and seldom went out. But both Derek Talbot and Mark Osborn had met her several times, and she had close friends among the neighbours.
Regina, having lived with the situation, often forgot there was anything the matter with the older woman. Now she remembered Derek’s expression when he had asked if her mother were the excuse for her refusal. So much reminded her of Derek. On the table was a fresh box of chocolates, and she felt sure they were from him.
Mark looked at her steadily. It was difficult to understand him in this mood. Usually his eyes were just clear and friendly. Now, they were cloudy, scared – frightened? He was silently pleading with her to accept.
“Well, if it’s important, I’d love to come,” Regina said.
The moment she said that she realised that it sounded graceless, but Mark didn’t seem to notice.
As they drove off, he asked if she were sure her mother would be all right.
“Oh, yes,” Regina said, “if she gets lonely she’ll go along the street to a neighbour’s.”
“She does go out sometimes, then.”
“Not often.” It was odd
that Mark should want to talk about that, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t encourage him. “She’s very sensitive, of course.”
“Has she always been like it?”
“No,” Regina said, “it was an accident while climbing in Switzerland. My father slipped, and they both fell. He died. She was paralysed for a year, and gradually recovered except for her face.”
“Oh, shocking bad luck,” Mark said. “I shouldn’t have talked about it, but—”
“It’s all right, Mark,” Regina assured him.
Somehow, it had eased the tension she had felt.
Derek certainly wasn’t likely to see her here with Mark; that shouldn’t matter, but it did. The restaurant was in a little side street near Paddington Station, the last place Regina would have looked for one. From the outside it was just a big window, a small window, and a green-painted door with faded wording on the fascia board above it. Inside, it was pleasant; red-plush seats round the walls, red-seated chairs on the other side, little tables with spotless white damask and glistening silver – a pleasant place indeed. Soft-footed, dark-skinned waiters moved about, speaking barely intelligible English in a variety of accents.
A coffee-coloured man had greeted them and taken their order, making it obvious that be knew Mark.
“It’s rather nice,” Regina said. “How often do you come here?”
“Oh, now and then,” Mark answered. “Found it by accident a couple of years ago. Not bad.” He spoke rather jerkily.
Regina was quite sure that he had a great weight on his mind, and was afraid that she knew what it was. This was going to be a proposal. Mark had screwed himself up to storm the flat, win her mother over, and virtually force her into spending the evening with him. ‘Business’ was a blind. She wished it hadn’t happened. He looked so massive and strong, but she knew that he could be hurt at least as easily as Derek.