So Young, So Cold, So Fair

by John Creasey

  He wiped his forehead when he rang off.

  Then he rang the hospital. Dr. James was there, had the same story to tell, and was reassuring. Scoopy was right out of the wood, Richard would be poorly for a few days; that was the worst.

  It was easy to relax, now; to laugh at fears. Roger didn’t laugh or relax for long, but dialled Osborn’s number. The double guard should be in position.

  Osborn answered …

  “Oh, all right,” he said, “I’ll see you at Derek Talbot’s flat. ’Bye.”

  He rang off.

  Now Osborn could get in touch with Talbot; or run away as Dickerson seemed to have; or simply do what he was told.

  Roger was in the street where Talbot lived ten minutes later. He saw Osborn arrive, in the gathering gloom. Lights were on at Talbot’s flat, and, a few moments later, Roger was assured by the portly, reassuring Sergeant Dalby, “They’re both inside now, sir.”

  “Good,” Roger said. “Thanks.”

  He hurried to the house. It was a small one, off one of London’s squares, only ten minutes’ walk from Medley’s offices. Talbot lived on the top floor. Roger rang the bell, but there was no immediate response. He rang again. Nothing happened – but he heard unexpected sounds, a thumping and a thudding. Then quite suddenly, glass splintered, he heard it crack, then heard it tinkle against the pavement. A few slivers actually fell on his hat.

  The Yard man came running.

  “They’ll kill each other!” he exclaimed. “Look up there, sir!”

  Roger backed away from the front door.

  Up at the window of Talbot’s flat, the two men could be seen in the light which streamed through the broken window. Talbot was leaning backward out of the window, and Osborn seemed to have his hands round Talbot’s throat.

  “Get that door down,” Roger rapped.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Rivals

  The door had a glass panel, and the Yard man a quick mind. He smashed the glass with his elbow and put his hand inside, and Roger went in and up the stairs as swiftly as he had gone to the bedroom at home. Someone appeared at the first-floor landing, a grey-haired man who was staring at the ceiling. There were dull sounds from there now, but the thudding had stopped.

  “Do you know—what’s happening?”

  “Don’t worry,” Roger said. He reached the next landing; Talbot’s. This door had wooden panels. He put his shoulder to it and pushed with all his strength, but it didn’t open. The Yard man joined him, and neither said a word, just drew back, then lunged; the door creaked. “’Gain,” grunted Roger. “On three. One—two—”

  They launched the weight of nearly thirty stone against the door, and the lock couldn’t stand it. The door yielded, but didn’t fly open; precious seconds passed as they battered at it. Roger’s mind carried the picture of Talbot leaning out of the window, almost helpless, and he could imagine what would happen to Talbot if he fell. Or what would happen if Osborn kept up that pressure.

  The room doors were open.

  Glass crashed, the floor shook, a man poured a stream of oaths. So there were two of them, still in there. Roger reached the room. The window was wide open and the curtains billowing, but the men weren’t near it. Talbot was in a corner, with a hockey stick in his hands, raised for attack. Osborn was crouching just in front of him, hands empty, crooked, breathing hissingly.

  Talbot’s hair was hanging in front of his eyes, but didn’t hide one eye, which was badly bruised. His lips were bleeding, too, and his tie had been wrenched to one side, his collar gaped. He held the stick with both hands, very tight and tense, expecting Osborn to spring at him, ready to smash it down.

  “All right,” Roger said, “that’s plenty.”

  But he was wary.

  Osborn started, glanced round – and then, sensing that Talbot would relax, leaped forward. And Talbot had turned to look at Roger. Too late, he brought the stick down. It hardly touched Osborn, who smashed at Talbot’s chin and sent him rocketing against the wall.

  Roger reached Osborn and hooked his legs from under him. As he crashed and the floor and the walls shook, Roger bent down and clipped him under the jaw. The blow didn’t knock him out, but it dazed him.

  “Make sure he doesn’t do more murder,” Roger said to Dalby, who had taken all this with complete calm.

  “I’ll watch him, sir.”

  Roger said, “Relax, Talbot,” and then hurried out of the room. He wasn’t surprised that the grey-haired man and two women were coming up the stairs. “It’s all right,” he reassured them, “I’m from Scotland Yard.” He flashed his card as the grey-haired man reached the landing. “No need to worry.”

  He closed the door as well as he could, then turned back to the room. He was never likely to find Talbot in a readier mood for saying what he thought of Osborn.

  Talbot, standing up, was running a comb through his hair. Even now, he was able to look at Roger with a faintly mocking smile.

  “Mind if I repair the ravages?”

  “Better come into the bathroom,” Roger said. “Watch Osborn closely, Dalby,” he added to the Yard man, and went off with Talbot. Talbot swayed, and grabbed the bathroom door for support. Roger helped him in, sat him on the bathroom stool and ran cold water in the hand basin. “It’s spoiled your schoolgirl complexion,” he said. “What was all that about?”

  “The rivals,” said Talbot.

  “What set it off?”

  “Being distressingly honest by nature, I suppose I must confess that I did. But it was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t you think?”

  “I thought the days of fighting over a girl were finished,” Roger said, “but I’m prepared to believe in the return of the primitives. Did you know I sent him to see you?”

  “No. Unkind.”

  “I wanted to talk to you both together. How did this shindy start?”

  “Mark Osborn, a man who is always three weeks behind in all ideas even when he’s at his brightest, began to poach on my preserves, as it were. Or emulate my methods. If one woos one should woo with the stamp of one’s own personality, as I’m sure your Turnbull would agree.”

  “Never mind my Mr. Turnbull. How did it start?”

  “I have a distinct impression that I would not like to be a policeman,” said Talbot, and dabbed at his split lip. The cold water was almost blood red, now, and he still looked a mess. “You have to stick to the point so distressingly tightly, it must get you down at times. But I cannot tell a lie. For three months I have pledged myself to Regina, showering her with gifts which I cannot really afford. The oaf Osborn suddenly decided that he would send her chocolates.”

  Roger turned away abruptly.

  “Lend me that towel, will you?” Talbot dabbed. “Thanks. I suppose, being dispassionate and all that, there was no cardinal crime in Mark sending her a box of chocs, and I can’t honestly claim that the idea of sending chocolates and flowers to my love is a unique and original concept. But by a process of trial and error I did discover that the chocolates Regina prefers are Garry’s. Not surprising, since Garry makes the best chocolates in the world. So when Mark is clod enough to send her Garry chocolates, the first time he’s ever thought of doing it, well—my restraint broke.”

  “How do you know he did?”

  “I saw the box on his desk last night. Garry’s postal packing, Regina’s address on the label.”

  “Why not punch him on the nose last night?”

  “He wasn’t there. I left in a huff. I managed to keep my temper with praiseworthy self-control, too. We were polite to each other today. Tonight, he duly arrived here and I suppose I was bitter. Regina had said a firm ‘no, she wouldn’t dine,’ and I haven’t forgotten that she did dine with Mark. So I asked him why he hadn’t brought me some chocolates. Just a little gentle nastiness. I thought
it would soar way above his head, but he took it as neatly as he takes catches in the slips. He promptly answered back, and to cut a long story in half, he then attempted to bonk me one. I hit back. I don’t mind telling you,” went on Talbot, fingering his throat, “that I thought he was going to kill me two ways. I actually wondered how you would deal with that—I mean, which would you hang him for, strangling me or throwing me out of the window?”

  He could be flippant; but he couldn’t hide the fear of the death which had passed so closely by.

  “How did you stop him?”

  “To express myself graphically but coarsely, I kicked him in the guts. We then behaved like savages avec battle-axes. At least, I had a battle-axe. Er—West.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know, I’m prejudiced. I should think defending counsel could tear anything I said in court to bits, by bringing evidence of my desire to put Mark Osborn in the dirt. But seriously—he meant to kill me. Not when he arrived—at least I couldn’t see the glitter in his eyes—but once we’d started there was the old blood-lust.”

  “Possibly. These chocolates,” Roger said. “How many boxes were there?”

  “Damn it. One.”

  “Sure it was addressed to Miss Howard?”

  “Sans a ha’porth of doubt.”

  “And you don’t know of anyone else to whom he sends chocolates?”

  “The grammar is impeccable, but the point of the question is a little misty,” Talbot said. “He has ever been what I am now—a one-woman man. I—but wait.”

  He leaned forward and emptied the hand basin, then washed out the sponge and dabbed his lips again. He looked much more presentable, but his right eye was closing up, and both eyes were bloodshot.

  “Still thinking up what to say next?”

  “I like to get your facts right for you,” Talbot declared. “Also, I think I have done Mark an injustice. Lor’ love a duck, what would Mum think of her little Derek after this one? Oh lor’, oh lor’, oh lor’! As a matter of fact, I think it was Wilf’s idea. Remember Wilf Dickerson? Each month we send a box of Garry’s chocolates to each of the prize-winners, it was part of the prize, just a little added thought, you know, to keep all the little honeys sweet. I wouldn’t mind betting that they were sent off yesterday, and Mark had the bright notion of taking Regina’s along. Certainly they were on his desk. Check up, Mr. C.I.D. man.” Talbot sat back on the stool and took out cigarettes. “Smoke? I need some soothing weed or drink, anyhow. I’ve got to think up some excuse for not apologising to Mark. Got a Ught? Ta.”

  Mark Osborn was sitting in an arm-chair when Roger went into the other room. He hadn’t suffered much damage, just a bruise on his right cheek. He looked composed enough, and told much the same story as Talbot, briefly, dully. He said yes, the monthly box of chocolates to each Queen had been sent off the previous day, and he’d kept Regina’s back to hand to her in person, then found he couldn’t see her that night and posted it at the last minute.

  Sending the chocolates in the first place had been Dickerson’s idea.

  They were always Garry’s chocolates.

  Question and answer had reached that stage when Turnbull rang up, his voice humming with excitement.

  “Hi, Handsome! That wrapping paper was smothered in Mark Osborn’s fingerprints, and there were some of Talbot’s, too. You haven’t let ’em get away, I hope.”

  “Nothing’s simply what it appears to be,” Roger said dryly. “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Turnbull almost roared the question, then went on with a rush, “No, sergeant, it isn’t! Alice Harvey’s dead of poisoning. They got her to the hospital just too late. Barbara Kelworthy received some chocs, but didn’t start them because she’s had a bit of gastric flu. Norma Dearing never touches chocolates because of her figure, so she hasn’t eaten her lot, either. At least no more harm will come from that damned attempt. I’ve been on to the hospital by the way, your brats aren’t doing so badly. Ptomaine, not arsenic! Also the Chelsea Division. They’ve found some kids—one a son of a sergeant there, Morgan—who were playing with your pair this evening. Down by the river; you want to tan their hides. This Morgan lad found a packet of sandwiches and handed them round. That’s the cause, all right.”

  “Yes, it’s the answer,” Roger agreed, “but your hunch came off.” He didn’t tell Turnbull what he knew about Osborn and Talbot, but went on, “We’ve got to get those chocolates analysed, go through Conway’s with a fine-toothed comb, and check everyone remotely connected with the job. What we haven’t got to do is lose our heads.”

  Turnbull roared: “Are you telling me that I—”

  He broke off, gulped, and broke off. There was a long silence, before Turnbull said, “Okay, so I lost my head over Regina. I can find it again, can’t I? But listen. There are three Queens left out of seven. Just three left. Who’s going next, and how’s she going?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three Queens Left

  The Globe, always the shrillest of the newspapers on this case, had huge headlines; a third of its front page said starkly:

  FOURTH

  QUEEN

  DUES

  and the rest was devoted to the story of the chocolates, Conway’s monthly habit of sending them to the prize-winners, to everything connected with the case.

  All the boxes sent out that week had been opened, every chocolate analysed. Most had a tiny arsenic content introduced through a hole, pinhole size. One or two showed signs that an attempt had been made to dissolve the arsenic, but the poisoner had quickly discovered that the powder was insoluble. None of the chocolates had fingerprints.

  The Yard added another quest to the search for Dickerson; had he bought arsenic? They spread the inquiries to everyone connected with the case.

  Roger spent an hour in the little workshop behind Garry’s chocolate shop near Bond Street. The air was thick with the cloying fumes of chocolate and sugar, girls in spotless white smocks and caps worked busily or answered questions. All the chocolates were handmade. The boxes which had been sent to Conway’s had been the usual kind, not made especially. They were always delivered to Conway’s by hand, a two-pound box for each Queen.

  No one at Garry’s had seen a stranger at the shop or in the manufactory the day before.

  The message boy who delivered said that he had put them on the desk at the inquiry office at Bennis Square, as usual. The girl in charge had been talking to someone on the telephone; that was all he remembered. Then came a moment almost of satisfaction for the Yard; there was a confusion of dates, the chocolates had in fact been left at Conway’s inquiry office for the whole of one night, when anyone could have got at them.

  The hunt for anyone who had been at the Conway building after the usual hours began.

  Dickerson could have been there. So could Talbot, so could Osborn; but there was no proof that any one of these had. Arsenic wasn’t traced to anyone, either.

  The lines of inquiry were gradually closed up, the only one still open was the hunt for Dickerson. Every newspaper ran his photograph again. He looked such a mild, diffident, kindly little man.

  Wilfrid Dickerson the Trustworthy, Wilfrid Dickerson the old family friend of the Howards, the Impersonal, became the embodiment of evil to millions. The innocent-looking face seemed to alter when one stared at it, the wrinkled forehead sprouted horns, the tone of the newspapers, defying the risk of later contempt of court, condemned him without trial.

  The newspapers changed from full support of the police to sharp criticism; the Globe’s reward was increased from £500 to £1,500. Still there was no trace of Dickerson, or of any one of the people involved, buying arsenic or anything which had an arsenic content.

  Every man’s body discovered anywhere in the British Isles, and which might conceivably be that of the missing Beauty Competition expert, was
measured and checked, but Dickerson wasn’t found either dead or alive.

  Conway’s postponed the next competition; at least there was breathing space, and the Yard had to accept the blow to its prestige.

  Of the three Queens who were left alive, only Regina lived a normal life. She saw Turnbull most days; and she seemed to steer an even course between him and the other two suitors.

  Norma Dearing, who lived in a Kentish suburb, gave up her work as a photographer’s model, hugged her home, and never went out alone. The Globe and other papers ran heartrending stories of the effect on her nerves. Barbara Kelworthy, of Wembley, did much the same. The Divisional police watched them both, the Yard watched them, the public and the Press watched them. They became almost like royalty in their own right, could hardly move without the spotlight of publicity.

  Neither was attacked.

  The police watched Regina’s home, and one Yard man always followed her, but she seemed almost oblivious. Her beauty had a serenity which nothing really disturbed. Somehow she managed to resist the sensationalism that the Press tried to create for her. After a few days they gave up trying much with her, and concentrated on the other two.

  But West, who also saw Regina most days, was quite sure that the fears were buried deep in her eyes. How could she fail to feel fear, unless—

  There was one obvious explanation: if she felt none; if her naturalness came because she no longer believed that she had cause to fear. That explanation was so simple that it would have been easy to overlook it. Regina would not be afraid if she knew that she was no longer in danger.

  If she knew that, then she also knew from whom the danger threatened.

  The attack on her might even have been faked—