So Young, So Cold, So Fair

by John Creasey

  “Did he know your son?”

  “Yes, he knew Harold,” answered Millsom, quite steadily. “In fact, Harold once wanted to get a job at Conway’s. Dickerson dissuaded him.”

  Almost automatically, because his mind was moving so fast, Roger asked, “Why?”

  “He didn’t think that a large combine of that kind would give Harold full scope. He was rather—resentful, you know.”

  Roger said more sharply, “Resentful of what?”

  “His position with Conway’s.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered the clergyman, “and in a way it’s difficult to blame him. He once had a small soap-manufacturing business which he inherited from his father. Conway’s made competition too fierce, and forced him out of business. Actually, his little firm was absorbed, and he was given a salaried post in the combine. It was reasonable compensation, I think, but—”

  The clergyman stopped, as if he couldn’t see that this would be of any interest to the police.

  “How long ago was this?” asked Roger.

  “It must be over thirty years.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Howard?”

  “No,” said Millsom. “I knew that Dickerson was unfortunate in a love affair, but only since I’ve been reading about the case in the newspapers did I know who the woman was.” The priest leaned back in a leather armchair, the arms of which were badly worn, and closed his eyes. He looked very tired. “I have been trying to make up my mind to come and see you all day, Mr. West, but couldn’t be quite sure that it was necessary.”

  Roger, fully relaxed, said, “You’d be surprised how little things can help.”

  “Yes. It’s about the poison. The arsenic.”

  Roger sat up. “What?”

  Millsom opened his eyes. There was the familiar strange calmness in them – as if he were still fighting back emotions which he knew he should not have.

  “I’ve read about the poisoned chocolates, of course, and the search for weed-killer. Only this morning I found a tin missing from my greenhouse.” He anticipated the next question, and went on very deliberately: “The last time I used it was a few days before my son came here.”

  His voice was very low-pitched, almost empty, as if he were touched by despair.

  Turnbull said briskly, “Well, we got a bit out of the parson after all. You say he still says he can’t tell us any more about why his son cut and run?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He’s probably lying,” Turnbull said carelessly. “But he’s given us something, and how! We’ve got the name of the weed-killer, know that Dickerson could have lifted it, know that Dickerson knew the church, including the steeple, that he and young Millsom might have met at the vicarage, working together in this. I know, I know, half of that will have to be washed out, but it’s still plenty.”

  “See anything else?” Roger asked.

  “In what?”

  Roger said mildly, “In the report.” He’d made it out comprehensively, and Turnbull had read and studied a copy.

  Turnbull looked at him almost suspiciously.

  “No. Is there anything?”

  “I don’t know. Think over it; if the same idea strikes you we might have some answers.” He offered Turnbull a Virginian cigarette, and Turnbull took it and grinned. But he was puzzled.

  “If there’s anything else in that report, I’ll get it out,” he said. “Thanks. Anything on Talbot?”

  “Not yet,” Roger said. “But there’s time.”

  Derek Talbot got out of bed on the second morning after Regina had been taken away by the police, and sat with his chin on his hands, looking moodily at the window. Unshaven, hair dishevelled, pale-blue pyjamas rumpled, he was nothing like the exquisite who made such an impression on so many people.

  He grunted and stood up, made himself some tea, then went to the front door. The newspaper had just been pushed through the letter box, and the post hadn’t arrived. It was just after seven o’clock, and he was as tired as he looked. He had slept fitfully; he had been sleeping fitfully for a long time.

  He opened the Globe. The headline cried:

  DICKERSON HIDEOUT FOUND

  Talbot felt his heart lurch, actually had to steady himself against the wall. He read intently, all tiredness fading. The whole story was there, how the policeman had seen the ‘woman with Dickerson’s face,’ how the police had raided the house, what they had found; and across the foot of the front page were reproductions of the photographs of the seven Queens. All but two of them were slashed. ‘As if with blood,’ gloated the Globe.

  Talbot made his tea …

  As he shaved and ran the water for his bath, he could see little in his mind’s eyes except the photograph of Regina; and Regina herself. His face was taut, lined, much older than his years. He did everything slowly and deliberately. When stripped, the muscles at his back, shoulders, and arms rippled easily, there was lean and wiry strength in him; and yet everything he did suggested that he was very tired.

  He towelled slowly, then dressed with his usual care.

  Nothing would make him hurry. The Globe, open at the front page, was spread out on his dressing table; as if it exerted some unholy fascination.

  There were sounds at the front door; the post.

  He went to get it. Two or three bills he tossed aside; a letter from a friend who was in France he opened and scanned. The other letter was addressed in block lettering, and that didn’t really surprise him. Many people wanting favours for the Conway’s Competition found out his private address, and all kinds of illiterate scribbles reached him, as well as some of the smoothest begging letters he could hope to see.

  He opened this one.

  She’s with the other girl at 28 Hill Crest Court, Putney Heath. Top flat, second building. If you want to save her life you’d better get her away, I know the way in.

  The undercurrents of tension and dislike between Roger and Turnbull grew stronger not weaker; each man was aware of them, each was deliberately trying to ignore them. The discovery at Hampstead and the instant quickening of the hunt for Dickerson had buried the currents deep, but there had been days of inaction since then. Turnbull had seen nothing more in Roger’s report. Roger still kept his own views to himself.

  The two girls were still at Putney. The rumours had been spread, cautiously; nothing had happened. There were moments when Roger told himself that to expect anyone to be fool enough to raid the apartment, knowing that the police were watching in strength, was asking for the moon.

  At others, he was sure the attempt would be made.

  Turnbull didn’t commit himself to an opinion.

  Turnbull was out, Roger at his desk, when the telephone rang just after nine-thirty, three mornings after they’d found Dickerson’s hideout. The jarring note of the bell might mean anything. Roger snatched up the receiver.

  “West.”

  “Will you speak to Mr. Derek Talbot?”

  “Put him through,” Roger said, and a moment later, “Good morning, Mr. Talbot.”

  “West, I must see you,” Talbot said abruptly. “I’d rather not come to the Yard, and I don’t want anyone to see us.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’ve had a letter from Dickerson,” Talbot said. “Anyhow, I think it’s Dickerson.”

  Roger didn’t waste time.

  “Leave your flat, go to Piccadilly Circus, and wait by Swan & Edgars. A green Morris will slow down just there. Nip inside, and the driver will see that you shake off anyone who’s following.”

  “Will I recognise the driver?”

  “Probably,” Roger said dryly.

  Half an hour later, he pulled up opposite Eros in the gilded cage, and saw Talbot staring along Piccadilly. A policeman moved towards the dr
iver who had dared to stop where traffic should go in perpetual motion.

  Roger waved him away, and walked swiftly along.

  “Hallo, Talbot.”

  Talbot started violently. “Lord, you scared me!” He looked round nervously. “I’m full of the heebie-jeebies, shadows follow me all over the place. Where’s your outsize Romeo?”

  They hurried to the car. Roger saw a Yard man, doubtless the one who was on Talbot’s tail. The man recognised him and gave an almost imperceptible signal.

  No one else was following.

  “Why do you want to see me?” asked Roger, driving off.

  Talbot struck a theatrical gesture; he was trying very hard to be flippant.

  “Hi, Super Sleuth with his nose to the trail! I have a Mysterious Missive. I telephoned you because I wanted to talk to you about it, and from now on I will not deal with Copper Nob the Copper’s Don Juan. Unless there’s any special reason, I shall not see your Turnbull again. I hate the sight and sound of him. I don’t even believe he would be good for Regina. Is it part of a policeman’s job to trifle with the affections of a woman in a case?”

  Roger said, “Talbot, I’ve a lot to do.”

  “I am about to disgorge the secret. But I lured you out in order to make one or two simple statements of fact that I can’t make at Scotland Yard or within the hearing of the newspaper hounds. I think Turnbull’s a clot and a swine. Is he serious with Gina?”

  “I’m not Turnbull’s keeper.”

  “You’re his senior at the Yard, and you ought to keep him on a leash,” Talbot flashed. “If he’s fallen for Gina in a big way, well that’s my cue to fade away to Australia or far, far away. I might even wish them good luck from a distance. But if he’s fooling around with her just to try to get the answer to this murderous business, then I’d—” Talbot broke off, and gripped his own coat lapels so tightly that the knuckle showed white. “Come across, West. Is Turnbull leading Gina up the garden as part of his copper’s job?”

  Roger said quietly, “Turnbull’s had no instructions to work that way, it certainly wouldn’t have official sanction, and as far as I’m concerned Turnbull’s running big risks in seeing so much of Miss Howard.”

  “Well, that’s a gust of refreshing frankness,” Talbot said, as if surprised. “Thanks. What kind of risks?”

  “He could be prejudicing an important witness,” Roger said. “He’s laying himself wide open to attack from the Press. If you want my private opinion, he’s making a ruddy fool of him self because he can’t help it. If you ever say that to him or to anyone else—”

  “Oh, Hawk-eye! Grant me some honour. Thanks, anyway.” Talbot took a letter from his pocket. “Here’s the real reason I want to see you. I’ve a nasty feeling that I’m being watched all the time and didn’t want to be seen passing this over.” He handed over the letter, and Roger turned into Whitehall and pulled up.

  “You see the nasty cunning of it, I trust,” Talbot went on. “I got the letter. So I, Sir Galahad the Second, go to rescue my Queen Regina. I get nabbed. The police are meant to reason, ‘Ah-ha, he’s discovered where the lovelies are and is going to make another kill.’ Only I am not a killer, as you may guess.”

  Roger had read the message twice.

  “When did you get this?”

  “This morning, at about seven fifty-one.”

  “Do you recognise the writing?”

  “No.”

  “I see,” Roger said. “Thanks, Talbot, I’m glad you didn’t lose any time.”

  This did not mean beyond doubt that Talbot was in the dear; Talbot could have written the letter and posted it to himself. It had a West Central postmark. But he wouldn’t have, had he wanted to make a secret visit to the two girls; and would a guilty man make sure that the authorities knew that someone had the girls’ address?

  Talbot almost sneered. “Don’t miss the other obvious clue, will you? Killer Boy knows where the two Queens are, Killer Boy might have another trick up his sleeve. Get Gina away from that place, West.” The last sentence spat out. “Understand? It’s not safe for her there.”

  “We’ll look after her.”

  “As you did sweet Barbara Kelworthy!”

  After a long pause, Roger said quietly, “Talbot, take my tip and get some rest. You don’t look as if you’ve had much lately. If you get any more messages, let me know at once—telephone and tell me next time. If you prefer not to come to the Yard, we’ll meet outside again.”

  “The fatherly policeman,” Talbot mocked. “All right. I’ll be good. Only one spot where I can get any peace, these days; ever heard of the halt leading the blind? If you want me, I’ll be at Regina’s place.”

  Roger said, “Don’t go making it worse for Mrs. Howard.”

  “We comfort each other,” Talbot said. “Odd, isn’t it?”

  He shivered.

  “Where shall I drop you?” Roger asked.

  “Oh, anywhere.”

  Roger chose a spot in Whitehall Place. The Yard sergeant had kept up with them – and so had someone else, who had done a remarkable job of shadowing.

  Turnbull also followed Talbot.

  Roger drove back to the Yard.

  Roger was back at the Yard after a snack lunch, by half-past two. The first thing he got was a message from the Yard sergeant – Talbot had slipped him. Did it matter? It was easy to give your man the slip, no matter how good he was. Probably Talbot had meant to go to Regina’s home, he might find some solace there.

  The sergeant was coming back; he could check.

  There were half a dozen reports, but none from Turnbull; the Detective Inspector hadn’t even telephoned. He was behaving as if he was answerable to no one, and before long Chatworth would explode.

  The telephone bell rang.

  It might be a routine call, it might be dynamite. That was the kind of tension Roger felt.

  “Mr. West,” said the girl operator, in a tone which told him it wasn’t routine, “I’ve had a call from Paddington. The Station Inspector just left a message—would you go to the Howards’ home at once? Mr. Derek Talbot’s been attacked there, and they are afraid that he’s dying.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  To Live Or To Die?

  As Roger pulled up just behind the ambulance outside Regina’s house, they were carrying Talbot out. It was a poignant reminder of when the boys had been poisoned.

  A crowd had gathered, and the police were being severe. Roger pushed his way through.

  Talbot’s face was just visible; very pale, with the bags under his eyes looking almost black. His head was a massed turban of white bandages, but the bright crimson of blood was showing through in places.

  The Divisional police surgeon was there.

  “Will he live?” Roger asked, tautly.

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  “You going with him?”

  “No, nothing more I can do. He’ll be on the table within an hour. His big chance is that Phillipson is at the hospital today; if anyone can save him, Phillipson can.”

  “So it’s the head?”

  “Battered something dreadful,” the doctor said. “As if someone just bashed for the sake of bashing.” He was a hardened campaigner of sixty disillusioning years, there was little he hadn’t seen in the way of brutal savagery; but he was shaken. “Either someone went mad, or the assailant wanted to pretend he was crazy.”

  The ambulance doors closed, and Talbot was driven off. Roger and the police surgeon went into the little house.

  “Where’s Mrs. Howard?”

  “Three or four doors along. She ran out of the house, screaming, that’s what raised the alarm.”

  Roger nodded.

  They went into Regina’s bedroom, and there was no need to be told that this was where the attack had been made.
A pale-coloured tiled fireplace was smothered in blood, especially at one corner. So was the surround. The carpet was damp and red with blood, too. The furniture had been pushed about in all directions, a glass vase was broken. The bedclothes were rumpled, although the bedspread was over it; someone had lain down there, as if to relax.

  There was a familiar smell Roger didn’t like. Turnbull’s Turkish tobacco?

  “Obviously been a fight,” the police surgeon said.

  “Yes.” Roger’s eyes were roving; he felt as badly as he had ever felt. Men were taking measurements, and a photographer came in. “Find anything?”

  “This,” the police surgeon said.

  It was a half-smoked cigarette, which explained the familiar smell. The cork tip was still damp, and the gilt lettering on the stub was plain: Half Moon Turkish.

  “I’ll take that,” Roger said. “Thanks.” He put it in an envelope. “Any ideas?”

  “D’you mean guesses?”

  “Your guesses are as good as most people’s ideas,” Roger said.

  The police surgeon put his head on one side, and grinned.

  “That’s more like you! Haven’t been yourself this morning—bit pale about the gills, too. Harassing business, of course, but it won’t do anyone any good if you knock yourself out.”

  “Those guesses,” urged Roger.

  “Oh, all right! Someone just held Talbot’s head in his hands and smashed it down on that corner. The position of the body, the actual position and nature of the wounds, all point that way. It wasn’t an attack from behind. He was lying on his back. What’s more, there were bruises on his cheeks—about there.” The police surgeon pointed to his own cheekbones, and Roger had a vivid mind picture of someone holding Talbot’s head in his hands. The thumb marks would be just about where the bruises were on Talbot’s face. “Let’s say he fell and knocked himself out on that corner,” the police surgeon went on, “or else was dazed. The assailant just bent over him, grabbed his head, and – well, that was that. Bleeding was copious from nose and head. Didn’t take long. Must have been hell.”