So Young, So Cold, So Fair

by John Creasey

  “Anything else?” Roger’s voice was brittle.

  “No. Can’t be sure how long he was lying there, but it wasn’t very long. Blood was just beginning to get a surface film on it. The window was open, and there’s quite a draught. The neighbours are out, no one seems to have heard anything.”

  Roger’s gaze wouldn’t settle, but kept roving. He came back to the pale tiles and the blood – and then he stiffened and moved forward, obviously not thinking of what the police surgeon was saying. He knelt down in front of the fireplace. There were bloodstains – but they weren’t so haphazard as most of the others, there was a kind of form to them.

  “Doc, come here.”

  The police surgeon was just behind him, breathing down his neck. A local policeman was standing, staring.

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Writing!” exclaimed the police surgeon. “His right hand was covered in blood, too. What’s it say?” He pressed forward. The writing was two inches high, the letters were badly formed, but once one saw what they were, quite readable.

  ‘The killer is—’

  The last word, the name, had been rubbed out.

  The killer had been named, and had come and wiped across the name, to smear it so that no one could ever hope to read what it was.

  Roger said tartly, “I didn’t know Talbot had any idea.” He went to the telephone by Regina’s bed. “This been tested for prints?”

  The local man said, “Yessir.”

  “Thanks.” Roger dialled the Yard, asked for Chatworth, was quickly put through. “I haven’t much time, sir, but I wonder if you’ll talk to Paddington Hospital, and find out if Mr. Phillipson, the surgeon operating on Derek Talbot—”

  “On who?”

  “Yes, Derek Talbot,” Roger repeated. “Find out if he needs any help. Talbot might live, but might die, and he seems to know the killer. Even if we could bring him round for a few seconds, just time enough to name the swine, it would do.”

  “Yes,” Chatworth said. There were times when he was the most understanding man in the world. “All right. Report again when you can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said stonily. He rang off, and went to look at the writing in blood, and muttered almost to himself, “There’s blood on Talbot’s sleeve. He could have rubbed it off himself, after collapsing again.”

  “You know, West,” said the police surgeon, “if you were a patient of mine I’d say that you ought to go off duty and take at least a week’s rest. At once. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry,” Roger said. “I wasn’t listening. Save Talbot if it’s humanly possible, won’t you?” He forced a smile. “Of course you will!”

  He turned away and hurried out of the house.

  The police surgeon and the local policeman stared after him.

  He sat at the wheel of his car for a few seconds, smoking, and with the half-smoked Turkish cigarette in his hand. He was conscious of people staring at him. Two reporters came near – and went off. Then a woman came out of a house a little way along; he’d seen her before, and recognised her as Mrs. Jameson, the neighbour who was such a good friend of Mrs. Howard’s.

  She came up to the car.

  “It is Chief Inspector West, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He forced a smile.

  “I thought it was. Inspector, can you assure me that Regina’s all right? I can’t let Mrs. Howard go back to the house, but she’s almost hysterical thinking Regina might have been hurt. She saw the man—”

  “She needn’t worry,” Roger said. This jolted him out of contemplation of the Turkish cigarette. “Regina’s quite safe.”

  “Would you—would you come and have a word with Mrs. Howard?”

  What else was there to do?

  He went into the neighbour’s house. Mrs. Howard was walking round and round a small front room, her eyes feverishly bright, her lips looking bluish in a sharp reminder of the heart affliction. The one side of her face was like marble, the other twitching. She stopped abruptly when she saw him – and he was surprised that she recognised him so quickly.

  “Mrs. Howard, I can give you my word that Regina is perfectly well,” Roger said. “I’ve actually talked to her this morning. There’s been a burglary at your house, and my men are in possession, but it’s nothing to do with Regina, and as far as I can find nothing has been stolen. Unless you had a lot of money there.”

  “Money?” echoed Mrs. Howard. “It doesn’t matter about money! I—”

  She stopped, abruptly, waved her arms, and almost fell. Her eyes closed. The neighbour held her; hastily Roger grabbed her, too. Mrs. Howard’s right hand fumbled at a small cloth bag tied to her waist. The neighbour snatched her hand away, opened the bag, and took out a small bottle, opened the bottle and shook a small brown tablet out on to her palm, then forced this into Mrs. Howard’s mouth.

  They stood back.

  “I’ll send for her doctor,” the neighbour said worriedly, “but I think she’ll be all right. Those pills work miracles with her. Thank you—thank you very much for coming.”

  “I’m glad you caught me,” Roger said mechanically.

  He went back to the car, got in, and drove off as two newspapermen bore down on him. He had no time for the Press; little time for anyone. The half-smoked Turkish cigarette was still in his pocket, as if it were burning him. He remembered the way Turnbull’s eyes clouded as with rage and fury; he remembered how he had hated Derek Talbot. He remembered how, only a few days ago, Turnbull had flung himself at Mark Osborn, and battered the man savagely.

  There wasn’t much doubt that Regina had the same effect on Turnbull as she had on Talbot and on Osborn.

  Facts were facts, no matter how ugly.

  Turnbull had followed Talbot, and Turnbull had been in the room.

  Roger knew that he ought to report at once to the Yard and have a call put out for Turnbull, get him in, question him. There would be blood on the clothes and the hands of the attacker.

  Turnbull had a bachelor’s flat in Kensington.

  Roger turned his car towards Kensington. His heart beat with a painful heaviness. Talbot lay between life and death, someone knew where Regina and Norma were, Dickerson was still at liberty, and Turnbull—

  He reached an old-fashioned building which had been converted into flats, and found Turnbull’s name printed in black on a brown-polished board.

  Detective Inspector Warren Turnbull, D.S.O., M.C.

  It was like putting one’s decorations on a private letter heading. He knew that Turnbull had won the awards, and it didn’t surprise him. The man’s physical courage couldn’t be surpassed. But courage was largely a matter of sensitivity.

  He walked up the stairs towards the first floor and the flat. Turnbull’s name was on a small brass plate, complete with the D.S.O. and the M.C.

  Roger rang the bell.

  Now that he was here, he knew that he should never have come. He should have told Chatworth and left Chatworth to handle the situation. He hadn’t done so because of the time when Turnbull had hung down from a narrow plank and held on to him, saving his life. A gunman had lurked there, too, and Turnbull hadn’t given that a moment’s thought.

  Unless he had known that he was safe.

  Roger rang the bell again.

  There were movements, footsteps, a closing door; and then Turnbull opened this door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Evidence

  Turnbull wore a dressing gown, silk, shiny, a dazzling design of golds and blues. He looked enormous in it. His eyes were narrowed, but nothing could hide their tiredness. He was astounded at sight of Roger, and stood with his hands raised almost as high as his chest, mouth open a little.

  Roger said, “Hallo. I want a talk.”

  He step
ped forward. For a moment, he thought that Turnbull would stop him; but Turnbull let him pass, then slammed the door. That sounded very loud; it was like the slamming of a door in a deadly trap.

  There was a hall and a bright front room overlooking some gardens. The sun was breaking through misty clouds. Roger couldn’t have cared less about the room, yet could not fail to see that it was the room a rich man might possess. A big-screen, expensive television set was in one corner, and books lined the fireplace walls from floor to ceiling; expensive-looking books.

  There was a baby grand piano, and on it a photograph of Regina Howard.

  Turnbull said, “Look at me, not her. What do you want?”

  “Have you given up working?” Roger asked brusquely.

  “Hell, no, but wouldn’t you like me to! I came home to change.”

  “You mean you came home to wash the blood off your hands,” Roger said very softly.

  Turnbull didn’t speak, but his eyes seemed to grow huge and to flame.

  “And your clothes.” Roger made himself speak in a low voice, and stood absolutely rigid. “You murderous brute.”

  Turnbull’s hands were still raised and clenched. Roger was big, Turnbull was bigger; and he began to breathe hissingly through his nostrils, the way he always did when he was fighting to keep his temper.

  “Why attack Talbot?” Roger asked. He knew that there was no time for asking questions, but questions had to come out, he had to make Turnbull talk. “Why go there and do it? God, I don’t understand what got into you.”

  “Talbot’s the killer,” Turnbull said. “And you were pretty close with him this morning. Nice and snug. I saw you. Conspiring with a killer—”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool!”

  “So I’m a fool. That’s right. A conceited lout, remember?” The words must have burned themselves into Turnbull’s mind. “But I wasn’t doing any deal with Talbot—how much did he pay you?”

  Roger said, “Listen, Turnbull, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

  “So I’m a fool,” Turnbull repeated. His whole body began to tremble. “Get out, West. Get out of my flat before I break your neck.” He caught his breath and then bellowed, “Get out, I tell you!”

  “I’m on my way,” Roger said. “But why kill Talbot?”

  “The way you he,” sneered Turnbull. “Can’t you dream up a motive like you dream up everything else?” So he was going to use flat denial; perhaps he was so full of conceit that he believed he could get away with it.

  “I’ll dream plenty up,” Roger rasped. “You’re in love with Regina. You know that she’s the killer. So did Talbot, and he was going to talk. So—”

  Turnbull leaped at him.

  Roger was ready; he saw the great body move and he felt the wind of the sweeping blow, but swerved to avoid it. Everything he possessed was in the punch he smashed at Turnbull’s chin; the timing was perfect, and Turnbull was moving into it. He just rocked back on his heels, then fell flat.

  He didn’t get up.

  Roger turned slowly away from him, because a new sound intruded. He couldn’t be sure that he knew everything, it was just possible, that was all. The big snag was that it made

  Regina guilty. Her beauty, her naturalness, her charm, all seemed to scream a denial.

  Damn that sound, of a ringing bell, a – telephone, of course!

  It was by the window. He had to step past Turnbull, whose eyes were open but glazed.

  “This is Detective Inspector Turnbull’s flat.”

  “Turnbull?” The voice, incredibly, was gruff and familiar; there couldn’t be two voices like it, could there? Chatworth’s. “Turnbull,” Chatworth repeated, “is that you?”

  Roger said, “West speaking, sir.”

  “Roger!” That was like an explosion, followed by a hissing pause. Then,” Listen, hold Turnbull, but be careful with him. He was seen leaving the Howards’ house, half an hour before Talbot was found there. Be careful, mind you, he’s an ugly customer when roused. Don’t let him get away. He—”

  “He’s stretched out unconscious,” Roger said. “He won’t give any more trouble. Send someone, sir.”

  He rang off before Chatworth could comment.

  It brought a curious feeling of relief. He’d given Turnbull a chance to explain, and the man hadn’t taken it. Someone else had put the call out for him, others had seen him at the Howards’ house, there was no need for him, Roger West, to lay the charge or start the hunt.

  Keeping an eye on Turnbull, who was beginning to stir, Roger looked into the bedroom. It was luxurious, and had a large double bed. By the side of the bed was another picture of Regina, looking at her loveliest. On a chair was a crumpled brown suit.

  There were bloodstains on the coat and the trousers.

  Chatworth was bulkier and burlier than ever as he squatted on the corner of Roger’s desk. Eddie Day and two other Chief Inspectors were in the room and so silent that it was hard to realise they were present. Chatworth might suddenly sweep out of the room and take Roger with him; and deny them the privilege of this.

  It was nearly ten o’clock that night.

  “… and I don’t give a hoot what you think, you were wrong both ways. You should have taken someone else with you, knowing he was dangerous, if only to protect yourself. And believing what you did, you should have reported to me before you went to see Turnbull. You must be nearly as crazy as he is. And it’s no use telling me that he once saved your life. This is a Criminal Investigation Department, not a Bureau for Sentimental Slops.”

  Roger took all this poker-faced.

  Chatworth almost bit through a cheroot.

  “All right, all right,” he growled. “I know what you did it for, but if you ever take a chance like that again I’ll—well, don’t. Now, what’s the position? Talbot’s still unconscious. They may save his life, but he won’t be able to talk for days. There’s this theory that Regina Howard is the killer, perhaps working with Dickerson. That right?”

  Roger said, “I don’t rate it as high as a theory. I can only tell you what possibilities there are. It could explain why Turnbull attacked Talbot—there’s no doubt that Turnbull is passionately in love with Regina Howard. And yet—”

  “Well, don’t hold out on us.”

  “It doesn’t square up,” Roger said abruptly. “At first I accepted it, but it can’t be right. Turnbull hasn’t made a statement, has he?”

  “No. He sits in his cell like a betrayed bull. He didn’t condescend to reply to the charge—which I made myself.”

  Roger said, “Would he take Talbot’s head between his hands and kill and splash blood all over the place? Could a man with his training and his flashes of brilliance make an elementary mistake like that? He’d know he would be caught. He might lose his temper and attack Talbot, but he wouldn’t just batter him like that. That would make him a demon. It would mean he is witless, too, and he isn’t. Above everything else, he’s a detective. That’s his dominating pride.” Roger jumped up and pushed his chair back, then began to pace the room. “I can’t believe that he’d let anything stop him making an arrest. If he was sure Regina Howard was guilty he’d charge heir, no matter what he felt towards her. I can see him smashing at Talbot, yes, but I just can’t go any further.”

  Chatworth still perched on the desk.

  “I see what you mean,” he said. “Complete reversal of a personality. Too strong-willed to act out of character like that. But damn it—bloodstained clothes, dried blood found in his fingernails, actually still a bloodstain on his right fore arm—”

  “I know,” Roger said. “I still boggle at it. And I’d like to know if anyone who could have been Dickerson was near the Howards’ house today. Because if Turnbull knocked Talbot out and then left him, someone else could have come along and finished him off. The one thi
ng we can take for granted is that Turnbull isn’t the killer—yet Talbot thought he could name the killer. We didn’t worry about the Howards’ house once Regina was away, that was the mistake.” He was still pacing the room, keeping his voice low, and trying to pierce the mist which had enshrouded the case from the beginning. “We know Turnbull was there, but someone else might—”

  He broke off.

  Chatworth, knowing him, kept absolutely silent; so did the others.

  Roger said softly, “There was one witness we haven’t worried much, because we’re scared of what might happen to her if she were high-pressured. Mrs. Howard. She ran screaming from the house, remember, that’s how it was all discovered. Then she collapsed, and I couldn’t question her. We haven’t tackled her beyond formal questioning. I think we’ll try again, sir.” He was already looking more alert, his eyes were less shadowy, his face less drawn. And they knew he hadn’t said everything he had in mind. “There’s that old family friendship between her and Dickerson, too. She might be keeping quiet for old time’s sake. She’ll pay for questioning. I think I’ll go over at once, but we’ll need to check with her doctor that she can stand it. If necessary I think we ought to insist, and give the doctor—a woman—an opportunity to be present if she wants to be.”

  Chatworth was almost humble.

  “All right, Roger, I’ll see to that.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger. He picked his hat off the stand. “I’ll wait until I’ve word from you, sir.”

  He went out and downstairs. A youthful sergeant was waiting by the side of his car, warned to stand by. Roger spoke to him absently, then took the wheel. The night was cool, but the stars were out. There was little traffic, and he took the main roads, turned out of Oxford Street towards the Edgware Road, and was soon pulling up outside Regina’s house.

  He walked to it. The police now on duty saluted. He was there for ten minutes before Chatworth telephoned to say that the doctor would soon be at the neighbour’s house.