by John Creasey
Conway’s being a powerful combine, with many subsidiaries, had much influence. Some of this they exerted, soon after the Globe’s latest sensational stories, and from a highly important member of the Government it reached Chatworth; and from him, Roger.
“Conway’s are belly-aching,” Chatworth said briefly and bluffy. “This scandal is costing them a fortune. All show cards, press publicity, wrappers, and cartons have to be scrapped because the faces on them are those dead girls. Business, of course, is business. They’re sorry about the girls, but wish they hadn’t started the Competition because of the money it’s costing.” Chatworth looked down his nose. “Mind you, I can see their point of view. They’re not selling as much soap as they like. It’s having a boomerang effect.”
Roger didn’t speak.
“Between you and me, they’re behind the rewards being offered,’ Chatworth went on. “They’re trying to stir up the Home Office, and force us to get results. You’d better let me have a good, smooth report to show how we’re running the job.”
“If there’s an angle I like,” growled Roger, “it’s being prodded that way.”
But he could understand it.
Regina walked briskly up the stairs leading to her office ten days after the death of the fourth Queen. By coincidence, it was also the day when the West children were to be released from hospital. She went into her office. The proprietor was in France, and as always she had a lot to do. But she was thinking more about Derek and Mark, who would undoubtedly come in before long.
It was nearly ten o’clock.
The morning mail hadn’t been opened. Regina slit the envelopes one by one, then began to take out the letters. Most were addressed to the little company, a few to her personally. She knew about fan letters to the Queens, who had become used to absurdities: to offers of marriage out of the blue, offers of a stage career, weird and wonderful propositions, requests for autographs and photographs, letters from schoolboys and schoolgirls, from Lonely Hearts and Solitary Sailors; from the forgotten, the lonely, the sad, the eccentric, and the mad. She had already had her share.
She took one out of an envelope addressed to herself. As she unfolded it, there was a sharp crack like the crack of a Christmas cracker, a flash, and a puff of smoke.
“Oh!” she screamed, and jumped up, her heart hammering, her throat suddenly tight.
The letter lay on the desk, the wisp of smoke fading and the sparks already gone. A girl came running in from another office, and started as Regina gazed in terror at the paper. This had a small burn mark in it, like a cigarette burn or an indoor firework.
That’s all it was, she tried to tell herself; a silly practical joke.
There were thudding footsteps, and Mark Osborn rushed in.
“Gina!” he cried. “Gina, what is it?” He leaped to her. Her pallor would have startled anyone, and it seemed to horrify him. “Oh, God, Gina!” He held her in his arms, crushing her to him. “I can’t let this keep on happening,” he said hoarsely, “I just can’t let it go on. These damned inefficient policemen, the doddering fools, what do they think they are? Why don’t they get the swine? Why don’t they get him?” He was shouting hoarsely.
“Mark, don’t—”
“If they can’t, I will,” cried Osborn. “I’ll find out who the murdering devil is, and I’ll kill him with my own hands. I’ll save you, Gina. I’ll make sure no one can attack you again.” He was still holding her tightly, as if he would not let her go.
“I know you will, Mark,” she said, very gently.
Then Talbot came in.
He stood looking on, the colour fading from his cheeks, a strange expression creeping into his eyes. Then the girl who had rushed in when she had heard Regina cry out told him what had happened. The look in Talbot’s eyes changed. He moved towards Mark and Regina, and said lightly, “Break, folk, the party’s over.”
He picked up the letter, and for the first time the others noticed him. He looked at them both, then back at the letter, and read in a strained voice: “You’ll go when your time comes, Queenie.”
“Friendly little missive,” he said, in a lighter voice. “Has anyone sent for that chap West?”
“There’s no clue on the envelope except the postmark London W.C.,” Roger said to Turnbull. “The paper’s ordinary cream-laid, you can buy it almost anywhere. The only fingerprints were the postman’s and the office boy’s who took the mail into Regina’s office. In other words, another blank.”
“It could have blinded her,” Turnbull growled.
“Not likely,” Roger said. “Most people hold an envelope eighteen inches or so away from the face when opening it. The amount of explosive was negligible, too. This was a scare letter.”
“If I could get my hands round—” Turnbull began, but didn’t finish, just raised his big, well-shaped, and powerful hands. Then he relaxed. “Okay, okay, I’m losing control! As Osborn. He’s showing up a bit screwy, isn’t he?”
“Living on his nerves, yes. We’ve always known the killer could kill again if he wanted to,” Roger said evenly. “But everything he does helps us a bit. He was able to get some white arsenic. He could manufacture that exploding letter—”
“Pooh, easy,” Turnbull said; “anyone with a few fireworks and a bit of spirit gum could fix a thing like that.”
“He’s clever with his hands. The way he inserted the arsenic shows that, too. A man with a lot of patience, who knows exactly what he wants, and—”
“Okay—Dickerson.”
Roger said, “I’ve a nasty feeling we might come across Dickerson’s body. Don’t forget the way this started. We were nearly fooled by Millsom. The man who was up in that steeple with Millsom shot at me, remember, and then pushed Millsom over and thought he’d fooled us.”
“He fooled me” Turnbull was almost vicious as he said that. “Handsome, every time I think of Harold Millsom I want to know why he ran away, if he didn’t kill Betty Gelibrand.”
“So do I.”
“Had another go at his Pa?”
Roger said, surprised, “The vicar of St. Cleo’s?”
“Yep. Just because a man has a dog collar he isn’t a saint or proof against crime,” Turnbull said. “I think he could tell us why young Millsom ran to him—if he would.”
“I’ll drop in soon, and try again,” Roger said. “Let’s get back to this: we were nearly fooled at St. Cleo’s. The man who fooled us may be repeating the tactics. Dickerson fits into our puzzle, so kill Dickerson, hide the body, and then sit back and laugh while we kill ourselves trying to find him,” Roger went on. “I get tired of coming back to the same place, but we have to. If the motive we’re toying with is the right one, then someone closely associated with one of the Queens is behind it, and we can’t find anyone who is backing Barbara Kelworthy or Norma Dearing.”
“Right back where we started from,” Turnbull crooned. “Talbot and Osborn. Every spare minute I’ve got, I watch ’em. And we always have them tailed. But since that last fight of theirs, they haven’t put a foot wrong. Did you know that Regina’s patched up things between them?”
“Yes.”
Turnbull said, as if sneeringly, “Nice girl, Regina. Sweet disposition. I don’t mind admitting that I fell for the beauty. But I’m beginning to wonder. She’s almost too good to be true. One strangler who might have meant to fool us. One explosive envelope and a threat, causing no harm. And she’s cool as ice.”
Roger kept a straight face.
“Think so?”
“I’m asking you!”
“If you mean, do I think that Regina’s behind it herself, and that explains how calm she keeps, I don’t think I do.” Roger wasn’t surprised by Turnbull’s look of relief. “She’s no fool, and if she were in it I think she’d play being scared. Actually I think she really is scared, but won’t give way to it.�
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“For mama’s sake?”
“That’s it.”
“If there’s a situation I think is criminal, it’s when a girl throws herself away on an old sick woman. It ought to be punishable by law.”
“Well, it isn’t,” Roger said. “Don’t you try punishing it yourself. She’s a pleasant enough old soul, and I don’t know that Regina Howard wants to get married and settle down. She may be a career woman!” The telephone bell rang, and he lifted it. “Hallo?”
“Detective Constable Marriott would like a word with you, sir,” the girl operator said.
“Put him through. Marriott?” repeated Roger. “Marriott? Do I know—”
“Jake Marriott? The man who’s trailing Regina.” Turnbull looked at it as if he would like to snatch the telephone away.
Roger said into the mouthpiece, “Yes, Marriott?”
“I thought I’d better call you yourself, sir,” Marriott said, and his voice betrayed his anxiety. “I’ve lost Miss Howard. A car cut in on me and then I had to stop at some lights. I was stuck. Couldn’t pick her up again.”
“Where was this?”
“Corner of Edgware Road and Pillen Street—not so very far from where she lives. She’d gone home in the middle of the morning, first time I’ve known her to do that. I parked at the end of the street, and followed as usual.”
“All right, Marriott,” Roger said. “Come back here, will you?” He rang off, irritated by Turnbull’s demanding gaze. He told Turnbull, while lifting the telephone again. “In formation Room—I want a search made for Regina Howard, you have her description, last seen at the corner of Edgware Road and Pillen Street driving her own Austin Seven, dark’ blue, 1946 model, registration number—”
“We’ve got that, sir.”
“Thanks. Make it snappy.”
“We will, sir.”
Roger rang off. Turnbull wiped his forehead.
That was at half-past twelve; ten minutes later, Osborn’s tailer reported that Osborn had given him the slip. A call went out for Osborn in a hurry.
By half-past five a dozen people had rung up to say that Regina was missing. At twenty to six, word came that Talbot was waiting in the hall, demanding to see Roger personally.
There was no sign of Regina or of her car.
The Evening Globe splashed it in huge letters:
ANOTHER QUEEN MISSING
Roger called the Hall Sergeant.
“Send Mr. Talbot up,” he said, “and see that he has company all the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eddie Day looked round, but didn’t speak, and no one else was in the office. Turnbull had been out for the past two hours. Roger lit a cigarette and looked unseeingly at the plane trees and the sunshine and the little corner of the roof of the London County Hall building visible from here. Then the door opened, and Talbot came in; a pale-brown tailor’s model.
He was trying to smile.
“Sanctum sanctorum” he said. “I won’t violate unduly. Thing is, I have information of importance which you probably won’t believe.”
Eddie Day gave up pretending to work, and stared.
“Try me,” Roger said.
“Osborn lured her away,” Talbot said. “I have what I regard as proof. I know I’m prejudiced, but look at the way my pal Mark is behaving. Apart from nearly strangling me, he is the nu in neurosis. I’m told that he almost suffocated Regina when he rushed in to the rescue this morning. Would you, as a great detective, have heard of the unfortunate mental affliction known as schizophrenia?”
“Where’s this evidence you’re talking about?”
“I also can detect. We’ve some direct-line call boxes, and Mark Osborn was heard to telephone Gina after she’d gone home this morning. Her mother had a nasty heart attack, but pulled through all right. Intelligent and persistent questioning of the staff uncovered news of this telephone conversation. Mark said something about having to see Gina for lunch, life and death, all that balderdash. She fell. She was always rather soft-spotted for him. No, I don’t know where they went. But I’m terrified of what might happen to her while with him.”
His eyes told the truth of that; terror was in him.
Chapter Seventeen
Action
There were days, there were weeks, when nothing would go right; then suddenly everything would fall into place and hopes would surge. The first crack in the case came while Derek Talbot stood staring at Roger, convincing him that he was terrified for Regina – and of Mark Osborn.
The telephone bell rang.
Roger lifted the receiver. “Hallo?”
“We’ve traced that Austin Seven,” Turnbull announced like a squall of wind. “Garden of an empty house, Paddington, believe it or not. Can you come?”
“You go ahead. Keep in touch by radio.” Roger put down the receiver sharply. “I’ve a job to do,” he said to Talbot.
“Can I come along?”
Roger said, “No. Officially, no.”
He gave a fleeting grin, and moved towards the door, grabbing his hat as he passed the stand. Excitement helped to drive fear out of Talbot’s eyes. He followed, and when Roger and Sergeant Dalby were moving in Roger’s car, Talbot in a taxi was on their heels.
Roger headed for Paddington, a narrow street and an exclusive little restaurant. It was closed. He stood rat-tatting at the door when Talbot pulled up in his taxi. Talbot didn’t get out. A sallow-faced man in a white apron came at last to the door. There was a smell of garlic hovering about him.
“Yes, what ees it?”
“Mr. Popacuros, please,” Roger said, and showed a card which silenced the man’s protests.
Roger and Dalby went in; Talbot, uninvited but not barred, followed. The rooms looked tiny, the tables bare, stacked chairs stood on several of them, the cutlery was missing.
Mr. Popacuros, the patron, appeared at the foot of a flight of narrow stairs, struggling to get into a pale-blue coat. He was plump, earnest, and sleepy – his eyes looked as if they wouldn’t keep open.
“But, Chief Inspector, nothing has happened here, I—”
“Was Mr. Mark Osborn in to lunch?”
“Mr. Osborn? But yes!”
“By himself?”
“No, indeed, he was not by himself,” said Popacuros, “he was with ze lady—” He paused and flickered a glance of recognition at Talbot. He looked very unhappy. “He was with ze lady who was with him ze other evening, when—”
“What time did they leave?”
“About three o’clock, Chief Inspector.”
“By car?”
“Yes, but not his usual one. It was a new kind, what is the word, yes, a Bristol!” Mr. Popacuros looked delighted with himself.
“What colour?” asked Roger.
“Grey, I am sure.”
“Thanks very much,” said Roger. “I want to know what you or any of the staff heard them say—have a chat with Sergeant Dalby here, will you?” He was casual, hoping that his manner would woo Popacuros into making a statement, even a casual word overheard might be valuable.
He smiled thanks and turned past Talbot, who hurried after him. He slid into his car and flicked on the radio.
The Yard answered.
“Put out a general call for a grey Bristol car, find out how Mark Osborn got it, if you can. It was last seen …” He went on, briskly.
Talbot was listening, just behind him.
“Good,” Roger said. “What’s the address of the place where Detective Inspector Turnbull went? … Thanks. Send him a flash that I’m on my way.” He switched the walkie-talkie off, and looked at Talbot. “I suppose there’s no law against giving you a lift.”
“You might think of one just when I need it most,” Talbot said. “I’ll keep to my cab,
merci. Don’t go too fast.”
He scurried off.
The Austin had been found in a yard at the back of a house which had once been used as builders’ and decorators’ premises. Bomb damage had been too great for repair. One blackened wall was shored up by huge beams. A rubble of bricks and slate and broken concrete filled the garden, bravely covered by wild flowers and spindly grass. The Austin Seven had been driven over some of this and stood close to the house, leaning precariously to one side. Turnbull was bending inside it, and looked all massive posterior. Talbot came nimbly over the rubble. “This is the one moment of my life when I’d give a fortune for a camera.” “I didn’t know you had a fortune.” “What a horror you must be to live with.” Talbot stared at Turnbull, who drew back from the car looking very red in the face; but he hadn’t lost any confidence.
He gave Roger a mock salute, and sent a hard, unfriendly glare at Talbot.
“Last driven by Osborn,” he announced; “I’ve checked fingerprints. The girl’s are there too, but a lot of her prints are obliterated. So, hunt for Osborn.”
“That’s what we’re doing,” Roger said. “Anything else inside that Austin?” “I don’t think so.”
“Gentlemen,” Talbot said, in a thin voice. “Or policemen. Mark sent the deadly chocs. Mark is a bad case of neurosis. Mark loves Regina more than life itself, he says, but—”
“Shut up,” Turnbull growled.
“No. For the love of Mike, find them. If you’d seen the way he changed, seen the look in his eyes when he started to strangle me the other night, you’d know what I mean. I don’t say he’s insane, but—”
“I said shut up!”
Roger pretended to be interested only in the Austin Seven, and not to notice. Turnbull was a Goliath against Talbot, who was absurdly slender, but who faced the Yard man without flinching.
“If the day ever comes when I take notice of you,” he said, “I shall apply for a death certificate.”
They glared at each other …
If the truth was what it appeared to be, in their different ways they were distraught because of Regina Howard.