by John Creasey
Roger didn’t speak.
“Well, do what you can with the job,” Chatworth growled. “Oh, by the way—how’s Turnbull?”“ He grinned unexpectedly. “Gnashing his teeth, by the look of him. Make him understand that things do go wrong sometimes, and you can’t sweep through every case.”
“I’m trying,” Roger said.
“Is he still good?”
“Yes.”
“Why the tone of reservation?”
“I think I’ll know when we’re through on this job,” Roger said. “Anything else, sir?”
“No,” rumbled Chatworth, “look after yourself.”
Regina Howard just looked hopeless and pale when she heard about the latest murder.
She said that she’d slept better that night than for a long time, chiefly because she had taken two of the sleeping tablets prescribed for her mother. It seemed almost idiotic to think that she might be responsible for the murders. She raised no objection to the police making a search of her rooms and wardrobe; nothing was found to suggest that she had been out the night before. There were no scratches at the windows.
Roger checked with the night-duty men; none of them had seen or heard anything. Nor had those who had come on duty at six o’clock.
He drove from the Edgware Road to the Kentish suburb where the other Queen lived.
Norma Dearing was different from any of the other winners. Her parents, while not wealthy, were comfortably placed. They owned a large detached house standing in its own grounds overlooking a park. In the delightful garden, a gardener worked two days a week, and there was a living-in maid; comfort not far removed from luxury.
Norma was the true English type, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with an unbelievably perfect skin. She was likely to be dubbed Miss England wherever she competed, but she lacked one of the qualities which Barbara Kelworthy had possessed: vitality. Hers was a languid beauty, and her creamy skin and limpid eyes did nothing to excite – as Barbara had; as Regina did.
She was almost blasé.
“The only thing I can say, Chief Inspector, is that I’m surprised the police have been so unsuccessful, but I suppose I shall just have to put up with it until the beast is caught. I admit I’m frightened, but it’s no use giving way to panic, is it, and I’m sure you’re doing your best.”
“Yes. Where were you last night, Miss Dearing?”
“Here, of course; if it wasn’t for television, I’d be bored stiff. Earlier I had a game of tennis with my brother, that’s all. But can’t you ask the policemen who were supposed to be watching?”
Roger said, “Yes. Have you a light-grey suit?”
Norma stared. “Why, yes,” she said, “as a matter of fact I have two. Why should that interest you?”
“I’d like to have a look at them, please,” Roger said.
She didn’t argue.
Her mother went upstairs with them; in all they had three light-grey suits between them, but none was of the plain serge the police had described as being worn by the veiled woman.
Roger checked everything as thoroughly as if the people here were major suspects, but with a sinking heart. This was the kind of thing they’d been doing from the beginning. It was simple routine, too; the girl would hardly have got away from this guarded house, with lawns surrounding it.
“Now that you’ve finished, Chief Inspector,” Norma said,
“I would be grateful if you could tell me what all this is about?”
Roger said, “It’s a routine check, Miss Dearing.” He watched her very closely. “Miss Kelworthy died last night.”
The mother just dropped down on to a chair, and gasped, “Oh, dear God!”
The girl took it very well. Her creamy skin paled as some of the colour receded, and her eyes took on an added sparkle as fear touched her. But she didn’t shrink back, didn’t show any signs of collapse, and her voice remained quite firm and clear.
“I suppose you have to check everything, but I didn’t leave here last night. Do you—do you yet know who did it?”
“No.”
“Have you found Mr. Dickerson?”
“No.”
“Oh, Norma,” her mother said brokenly, “there’s only just the two of you left, just you and Regina Howard.”
“I know,” Norma said, in the same clear voice, “but please don’t fuss, mother. All the same, I would like to feel that nothing else can go wrong, Chief Inspector.”
Roger had never admired her so much.
“We’ll do everything we can, but it’s partly up to you, you know. I’d like you to leave here, after dark tonight, with me and several other C.I.D. men. We’ll take you to a place where you can’t be followed, no one will know where you are. We can’t make you do it, but—”
He broke off.
“All right,” Norma decided promptly. “I’ll do whatever you think best. Will Regina Howard be coming?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“At least he won’t be able to kill us both at the same moment,” Norma said, dryly. “What time will you call?”
“Eleven o’clock,” Roger said. He looked at her levelly, and as levelly at her mother. “Don’t tell anyone outside the family that you’re going.”
“We won’t,” said Norma emphatically, “and if I don’t know where I’m going I can’t tell anyone that, can I?” She gave a queer little strangled laugh. “You’ll come yourself, won’t you? I couldn’t bring myself to leave with strangers.”
“I’ll come myself,” Roger promised.
Chapter Twenty
Night Journey
Derek Talbot flicked a match away, and it struck the frame of the open window of the living-room at Regina’s house. It was nearly seven o’clock that evening. He had brought her from the office in a taxi, to find Roger West waiting for her. Her mother was still with neighbours.
“It’s all right as far as it goes, Hawkshaw,” Talbot said thinly, “but I don’t really like the idea of Regina being spirited away from under my nose, as it were. After all, the police have fallen down badly on this, haven’t they?”
Regina spoke quietly. “Derek, it’s wise, and provided we can do it without worrying mother, I’m quite happy.”
“Votre mère can console herself with neighbours,” Talbot said, almost nastily. “Do you understand me, West? You’ve been a very decent scout, but the same can’t be said for everyone on the force, including one I won’t name. There’s an old saw about setting a thief to catch a thief.”
“Derek—” Regina began.
Roger smoothed down his curly hair. It wasn’t easy to smile, but no occasion had ever called for more patience.
“I see what you mean. The one person who could fool us easily is a policeman.”
“Precisely.”
“Why don’t you stop talking nonsense?” Regina demanded. “I can tell mother that I’ve got to be away on business. Provided the Jamesons can put her up for a night or two, it’ll be all right. When she’s back, I’ll go and see them. Can I telephone my answer?”
Roger said very quietly, “You’ll come with me, Miss Howard, or you’ll have to take the consequences.”
“The police get uppish,” Talbot sneered. “They can’t stop it themselves, so they’re finding ways and means of blaming the victims.” He was looking impudently into Roger’s eyes; then something in their expression made him change his tune. His eyes dropped. “All right, West. Sorry. I’m on edge, too. Couldn’t be worse if I were on the killer’s list myself.”
“Derek,” Regina said, “I think you’d better go.”
He looked her up and down, and his eyes kindled. In spite of all that had happened, she was really magnificent to look at. In all this surfeit of beauty, hers would always have freshness.
“Yes, beloved,” he said. “Y
ours obediently. But West had better not let anything happen to you. I hereby vow, if he does and you don’t come back, that I shall render an account to him myself, personally, and with violence.” His smile was very brittle. “I wonder if you’d spare a minute with me solo, so to speak.”
Her eyes pleaded. “Derek, not now.”
He shrugged. “All right, sweet. I’ll make it a public confession. I love you.” He blew her a kiss, but there was a wry twist at his lips. “No response from my Regina. I really am without hope, aren’t I?”
“Please, Derek—”
He shrugged again, and turned away. Roger pretended to look at him, but actually watched the girl. There was a film of tears in her eyes. Her hands were clenched very tightly. It was hard to say whether she had any affection for Talbot, or whether she was just sorry for him. It was as difficult to judge whether she was badly frightened or not. There had been no doubt about Norma Dearing’s fear, but now he wondered about Regina’s.
Need he?
Talbot was halfway out of the room. He looked back.
“Postscript,” he said with more effective lightness. “If the police lose the next Queen in this pretty game of chess, there’ll only be one left. The winner!” He gave his wry smile again. “Could anyone have seriously expected to get away with it for you, Gina?”
She didn’t answer.
He went out. The front door closed.
There was a curious tension in the room. Then the girl seemed to let herself go for the first time, and she buried her face in her hands and went blindly towards a chair. Roger didn’t help her. She knocked the chair with her leg, then dropped into it. Her shoulders moved as she cried, but there was hardly a sound from her.
Roger stood watching.
At last, she looked up. Tears smeared her cheeks, and she made no attempt to wipe them away. She didn’t try to smile or pretend to make light of her feelings.
“I’ve never felt so dreadful,” she said. “It’s as if I’ve got to kill or be killed.” She looked at him straightly, and only the old tears were in her eyes, she wasn’t crying now. “Will you look after me?”
“I don’t think you need worry,” Roger said gently, and tried hard to be convincing.
“Please,” she began, and then broke off, stared out of the window, and gritted her teeth; he could hear the sound. “Please don’t let Derek know where you’re going to take me,” she said. “I think—I think he frightens me. He always has, he’s so ruthless. Am I being disloyal?” The question had the strength of great sincerity.
She need never know that he was lying.
“I won’t tell him,” Roger promised.
One of the difficulties was keeping the facts away from the Press. Public interest had never been higher in any contemporary case. The Globe had made it its own, and men from several other popular newspapers seemed to haunt the Yard. There was no law against that. There was no law against the fact that a Press man was nearly always to be seen at the end of Bell Street, watching Roger; one or two near Regina’s house; others within sight of Norma Bearing’s home. The Press was on the lookout everywhere. Sometimes that helped; as often as not it was a handicap.
There were ways and means of avoiding them which any Yard man could use. The important thing was not to let them know that they were being avoided. Although he wanted the ‘secret’ to leak as far as Talbot, Roger didn’t want it to reach the Press. To get Regina Howard and Norma
Dearing away from their homes without the newspapers discovering it was going to need a lot of careful staff work.
The girls co-operated; so did the Dearing family. Mrs. Howard, still with the neighbouring Jamesons, didn’t know what was being planned.
The actual move was done swiftly and easily. An ordinary London taxi swung along the road and stopped outside Regina’s house. She was ready. Two policemen went with her to the cab, and West leaned out of it to grip her hand and help her in. Two reporters, on the trail in a matter of seconds, were blocked at the end of the street.
An hour later, escorted by police cars in front and behind, the cab turned into the driveway of a large block of flats overlooking Putney Heath. It was then after midnight, and no one was about. Wearing a floppy hat which hid her face, Regina was hustled up to an apartment on the top floor.
Norma Dearing was already there.
Roger watched the meeting of the two girls closely. They had met casually before – at the competition when Norma had won her prize. There was a moment of hesitation. The English Rose of Norma was quite perfect, and excitement had given her more expression, greater vitality, but she was still reserved. The beauty of Regina was different, because everything she did and said was with such supreme naturalness.
After that momentary pause, while they eyed each other, Regina put out her hands. They gripped; and Regina squeezed and drew the other girl to her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you, Norma. I do hope it isn’t worrying you too much.”
Norma said, “Well, it can’t last much longer, anyhow.” She seemed more reassured.
They moved about the flat, seeing the bars at the windows of two rooms, the special lock at each of the doors, the alarm system, and the guard system. Every window and every entrance to the block of flats was under constant surveillance; and floodlighting, usually switched off after midnight, was still on, and would stay on until the hunt was over.
The girls had adjoining rooms.
Roger left them together, had a word with the man in charge of the precautions, Wiltshire of the Yard, and then went down in the lift. No new staff had been taken on, there were no new tenants, there was nothing at all to suggest that Dickerson or anyone else had entrée here.
Roger would spread the whisper about in a day or two, and intensify the watch on Talbot.
But the next move caught Roger by surprise.
A Chelsea policeman, on his ordinary afternoon patrol, saw a ‘woman’ with Dickerson’s face.
Roger sensed the constable’s excitement, secretly sympathised, outwardly was poker-faced.
“I’m quite sure it was the wanted man’s face, sir. Believe me I’ve studied that face for hours, my wife’s fair sick of the way I’ve stuck at it.” He had a slightly West Country burr. “I couldn’t make a mistake, and there it was, but he was wearing a woman’s suit. A light-grey suit, sir, I’m positive.”
“Good, Harris, this is just what we needed to know. What did you do?”
“I didn’t let on I’d recognised him,” Harris said eagerly. “I walked past with a face as straight as yours is now, sir, and turned the corner before I did a thing. Had a bit of luck, there was Sergeant Dowse on his bike, so I tipped him the wink, and he rode off and phoned the Yard, sir. Thought it best to go straight to the Yard instead of through the Division. Maybe I was wrong, but—”
“Your super will forgive you!” Roger reassured him.
They were already on the way to the house near the Thames at Chelsea, where the woman with Wilfrid Dickerson’s face had been seen. It was the moment Roger had been waiting for; he felt an almost painful suspense. Harris was sure, but could have been mistaken; minutes should show.
The house, large, massive, and made of red brick, with an overgrown garden, a shrubbery where several men could hide, a double garage, and, at one corner, a slate-roofed tower, was surrounded by Yard men and Divisional police. The excitement touched every man, showed in eyes, in bearing. No car was very near, nothing was left to chance when Roger and the Divisional Superintendent went along the drive. The gravel was thick with thrusting weeds, everything had an air of neglect, but there were curtains at the window, and nothing to suggest that the house was empty.
They knocked and rang; there was no answer.
With a dozen police waiting and watching, tensely, Roger found a window open at the back
, close to the garage. If Dickerson, or the ‘woman’ like him, had escaped, he could have hidden from the constable, walked behind the garage, and climbed into the next garden.
The two policemen went from room to room, landing to landing, passage to passage, feeling almost suffocated.
They didn’t find Dickerson, but they found two grey serge suits, and a woman’s underclothes, stockings, shoes which were large for a woman. Dickerson’s fingerprints were everywhere. There were some fireworks and a few simple ‘joke’ tricks, to make smoke and small explosions.
And in one room of the first floor there were seven large photographs, one of each Queen. They were in the form of show cards for Conway’s soaps and toilet aids. Five stood with the faces to the wall, just Regina and Norma’s faces were showing. Roger turned the others round.
Each had been slashed with red paint or with lipstick, a hideous disfigurement.
The faces of the two living girls were not touched.
Only one other ‘clue’ was found – a visiting card, dusty and soiled, reading:
The Rev. A. Millsom,
St. Cleo’s Vicarage,
Chelsea.
Chapter Twenty-One
Message For Talbot
The Vicar of St. Cleo’s, in his book-lined study, which had a lived-in, rather threadbare look, made no attempt to deny that he had known Dickerson. He still looked much older; as if the shock of what had happened to his son would never lose its hurt.
“Yes, I’ve known Wilfrid Dickerson for many years,” he said. “He was once a parishioner of mine, here. We’re not close friends, mind you, little more than acquaintances.”