by John Creasey
Roger waited outside for her.
She was elderly, wary, but co-operative. She knew the neighbour well.
“How is Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Jameson?”
“Well, she’s asleep,” the neighbour said. “I hate the thought of disturbing her. But if you say it’s all right, Doctor. ..”
“We’ll be gentle,” promised the doctor. “Let me see, this is the room, isn’t it?”
She opened a door.
She stepped inside, then stopped abruptly, causing Roger to bump into her. The exclamation at her lips and the sudden halt brought fear pounding into Roger’s mind. He pushed past the doctor.
The room was empty; a window leading into the street was open.
The general call for Mrs. Howard was sent out within ten minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Killer
“Oh, dear,” said the neighbour, grey hair misty against the open window. “She does worry me so much. She knows she shouldn’t go out alone, and will slip away. I’m afraid—”
“Does she often go off without saying a word?” Roger asked.
“Well, she has several times lately,” said the neighbour. “I was so worried a few nights ago, but I didn’t like to say anything to Gina about it. I know how she worries over her mother. It’s too bad.”
Roger said stonily, “What night were you so worried?”
“Well—” The neighbour waved her hands about.
“It’s difficult to be sure, but—”
It was as difficult to be patient, and it took half an hour to establish that on the night of the murder of Barbara Kelworthy, Mrs. Howard had been out until very late. She had been very ill next morning, but no one had been surprised, because she nearly always had a bad attack after her outings; the doctor’s pills pulled her round, said Mrs. Jameson.
“One day she’ll overdo it,” the doctor said. “I’ve warned her time and time again. D’you mean you’ve no idea at all where she’s gone?”
“Well, no,” said the neighbour. “Except that—”
She broke off, and gave a crackly little laugh. “It’s so hard to say it about a woman in her fifties; if she were twenty years or so younger I’d say that she was going out to see her young man. As it is—”
Roger’s voice was brittle.
“Is there a man friend?”
“Well, yes, there is,” said the neighbour, and looked as if she wished she’d never broached the subject. “Mrs. Howard didn’t want Gina to know, I think she felt rather embarrassed about it, and as I’d always understood that she hadn’t much longer to live, I didn’t see why I should worry her, so I kept her secret.”
“Do you know the man?”
“Well—” The neighbour gulped, and something of
Roger’s tension touched her. “I do and I don’t; he’s a nice old man, and I think he has a little flat in Nettle Street. That’s two streets away. An old-fashioned man, really, he dresses fifty years behind the times and has a beard, but he’s sprightly enough. After all, it is her life, she can do what she likes with it, can’t she?”
“Up to a point,” Roger agreed. “Excuse me.”
He went out of the house on the double, heart thudding.
The flat at 22 Nettle Street was located half an hour afterwards. It was empty. Ten minutes’ search proved that Dickerson’s fingerprints were all over the place; so he’d had several haunts. There was also a woman’s light-grey suit, bundled up and thrust under a bed, and thick with bloodstains, as well as a small felt hat with a veil.
Descriptions of Dickerson dressed like a man of the 1900s, and of Mrs. Howard, were flashed to all London districts. That was at eleven twenty-one. By half-past, Roger was on his way to the Yard, with his walkie-talkie switched on.
A flash came from Information.
“Calling Chief Inspector West—Calling Chief Inspector West. A man describing himself as Wilfrid Dickerson is at the Putney Police Station, please proceed there at once. Calling Chief Inspector West—”
“Putney!” Roger burst out, and wrenched the wheel.
Dickerson might have stepped out of the pages of a Tailor & Cutter of 1901. He was small, grey, lined, nervous – and yet emphatic.
“I had to come and see you, because I’m afraid Maude will attack her own daughter,” he said. “I’m afraid she kills for the sake of killing, now; when she got away with the first three, it did something to her. She was with me tonight, and then she ran away. I know she was coming this way, and she knew
Regina’s address, too. Also that other girl’s. You see, she hates beauty – because her face was so disfigured when she had that crash. I’ve tried to reason with her, to help her, but I couldn’t bear it if Regina were to suffer. Poor Regina …”
Roger growled. “Let’s have the truth, Dickerson. You’ve been in this from the beginning. You’ve worked with her.”
“No,” denied Dickerson in a strangely deliberate way. “I have tried to stop her. Not until I found her at the Chelsea house, with all those photographs, the poison, and—”
He broke off.
Roger didn’t force the questions then. There was plenty of time. It would be better if Dickerson felt sure he was being believed.
“Does Regina know?” demanded Roger.
“About her mother being the killer? Oh, I don’t think so,” said Dickerson. “Of course I can’t be sure, but I should be very surprised indeed. You see, Maude is very quiet and kind, usually; it’s only when she thinks of what happened to her, and—”
The moon was out, and the night was cool but pleasant. The leaves of the trees rustled in the grounds of the flat and on the Heath just across the road; the wind whispered through the grass and the shrubs, touching the curtains at the open window. There were lights at most windows and music from some of the rooms. Traffic passed by, headlights on, sweeping towards London or towards Kingston and the West.
The police, at their stations, hardly moved.
As Roger walked towards the entrance hall of Hill Crest Court, a shadowy figure emerged from one side.
“Mr. West—”
“Yes.”
“No one’s arrived, sir.”
“All right. If Mrs. Howard comes, let her use the lift—and telephone me that she’s on her way.”
“Very good, sir.”
The metal lift was small and self-operated. It rose slowly.
Roger looked out of the tiny window at each landing, and saw nothing. It came to a standstill gently, and he stepped out. A policeman appeared a moment later, from a hiding place a little way along the passage.
“Evening, sir. All quiet.”
“So I gather. If Mrs. Howard comes, let her pass—don’t show yourself.”
“Very good, sir.”
“But come up to the door as soon as she’s entered.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger rang the flat bell. There was a sound of movement immediately, and then a middle-aged woman, sturdy and calm-eyed, opened the door – a policewoman here as a housekeeper. She barred the way, holding the door tightly, until she recognised West, Then she relaxed and gave a smile that betrayed something of her tension.
“Evening, sir.”
“How are tricks?” Roger asked.
“Miss Howard’s all right,” the policewoman said, “I could deal with her kind, but the other one—high horse isn’t the word for it.”
“She’s had a tough time.”
“Haven’t they both?”
Roger said, “Yes, I suppose so. I’ll go and see them. Let Mrs. Howard in, if she comes, then follow her.”
The woman opened a door of the drawing-room, large and pleasant, with a long window overlooking the Heath. Now the window sill was gay with roses in low metal bowls and sweet peas with their ta
ll stems. The radio was on, tuned low. Norma Dearing was leaning back in an armchair, beating time to the music with her right foot. Regina was sitting upright, knitting.
Both looked round.
Norma jumped to her feet in a flash. It was easy to understand the policewoman’s comments; she looked drawn and querulous, and her voice was waspish. “Is there any news? Have you found him?”
“Not yet,” Roger said. “I hope—”
“Oh, you hope” Norma sneered, and turned away; but there were tears in her beautiful eyes, and Roger could sense her tension, her despair.
But he wasn’t really interested in Norma. He watched Regina, had taken more notice of her from the beginning. She was tired, too, there were the same signs of tension, but her voice was more controlled.
“How can we help you, Mr. West?”
Did she know the truth? Did she even suspect that her mother had any part in this? Nothing in her clear eyes suggested that, nothing in her face or manner hinted that it was possible.
“I want to know a little more about Dickerson, if you can recall anything,” Roger said. “More about his earlier association with your mother.”
“But I’ve told you everything I can.” That answer seemed so honest. “He was really a friend of my father, although hardly a familiar, but after the lapse of years mother and he became quite friendly.”
“Just quite friendly?”
She looked puzzled; not frightened or alarmed, but bewildered.
“Well, yes, that’s all. I—”
The telephone bell rang.
Roger moved towards the instrument quickly. Both girls sensed that this was no ordinary call and no routine visit. Norma, who had dropped back into her chair, stood up very slowly, tensely.
Roger said, “West speaking.”
“Mrs. Howard’s on her way up, sir,” a policeman said, breathless with excitement. “We let her come, as you said.”
“Yes, good.” It wasn’t easy to be matter of fact. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” That would mislead the two girls. “Just stand by.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger put down the receiver. The girls, standing close together, watched him with increasing tension. He tried to break it by questioning Regina again, and bringing Derek Talbot into the theme. He didn’t ease his own or their tension much.
Then the front door bell rang.
They heard a woman’s voice.
The drawing-room door opened. The policewoman appeared first, barring the older woman’s way.
“It’s Mrs. Howard, sir.”
“Mrs. who?” Roger believed that he made himself sound astonished, he wanted Regina to believe that he was; and he watched her.
He was quite sure that she was astounded. It showed in the way her mouth opened, then closed, in the way her eyes rounded. Then she recovered, and moved forward swiftly.
“Mummy!”
“Hallo, dear,” Mrs. Howard said. She came in, dressed in a suit of dark grey and with a neat little felt hat without a veil. “I thought I’d come and see how you were getting on.” She gave her rather vague smile. “I must say it looks very nice and comfortable here, the kind of place you ought to have, I think. Don’t you, dear? I always hoped you would have somewhere like this when you won that competition. I’m sure you would have won, aren’t you, if it weren’t for this unhappy business? Although I must say you’re very pretty, dear, too.” She turned to Norma Dearing, gave a vague little smile, and stood looking about her.
Roger waited tensely.
“I’d love a cup of tea, now I’m here,” she said suddenly. “Do you think you could get me one, Gina? It’s rather a long way.” She gave a tired smile, and her lips were blue-tinged. Regina looked alarmed.
“Yes, of course, mother. Come and sit down. I’ll get—”
She helped her mother into a chair.
To Roger, it was an anticlimax which almost hurt. The woman with half her normal face sat down, gasped, settled back comfortably, and then took out a small bottle. It held two or three brown tablets.
“I’d better have one of these,” she said, then took something else out of her handbag; a small packet of sweets. “Would you like a peppermint, dear?”
“You know I don’t like them, mother,” Regina said. “Perhaps Norma—”
Mrs. Howard proffered the packet to Norma Dearing.
“Do have one, dear.”
“No, I—well, thank you very much.”
Norma took one.
Roger moved, and jolted her arm; the peppermint dropped. Mrs. Howard didn’t seem to notice. She popped one of the brown tablets into her mouth, leaned back and closed her eyes.
Regina was on the way to the kitchen.
Roger picked up the peppermint.
Mrs. Howard gave a funny, gasping sound, and then choked. Roger saw her moving up in her chair, with an awful expression on her face—a look of absolute horror. Then she made another dreadful choking noise, the breath seemed to whistle between her lips, and she dropped back.
She was dying …
There was a smell of bitter almonds; and Roger knew in that dread moment that the brown tablet had contained cyanide of potassium.
There wasn’t a chance of saving her, nor a chance of keeping Regina away. She came hurrying back, saw her mother, and stopped, her face blanched.
An hour later, the police knew beyond all doubt that the peppermint that Mrs. Howard had given to Norma Dearing was also filled with cyanide. So were the others in the packet, and the two remaining brown ‘heart’ tablets. The only prints on the packet and the bottle were Mrs. Howard’s.
“She knew her daughter didn’t like peppermints, so saw just one way to finish Norma off, and put an end to her own life,” Sergeant Dalby said, heavily. “She must have been properly at the end of her tether. What a case and what a motive! To get rid of all those lovely girls, just to make sure her own daughter would win—”
He broke off.
Chatworth said gruffly, “I don’t understand it. Surely she must have known that before many of the Queens were dead, the Competition would be suspended, even if it wasn’t cancelled. It’s seemed the only motive, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“At most it’s a part of the motive,” Roger declared.
He startled them both. They turned to stare.
“Do you mind if we have Dickerson in, sir?” Roger asked. “I’d like to get his reaction when he knows that Mrs. Howard’s dead.” He was stony-faced; and Chatworth didn’t raise any argument, but sent for Dickerson.
The little man came in, diffidently. He kept rubbing his hands together, and it was obvious that they were strong hands, large in proportion to the length of his arms.
Roger told him …
His face puckered. He didn’t actually cry, but looked as if he would break down at any moment. He backed towards a chair, groped for it, and sat down.
He found his voice.
“I was—afraid she’d do something like that,” he muttered. “Ever since I discovered what she was doing. I—I loved her so much. I didn’t want to betray her. I knew she was very ill, even close to death, I hoped—I hoped she would die before the truth came out.” He drew a hand across his eyes, and when he took it away his eyes were misty. “The accident must have turned her mind, of course. She was so very beautiful. And Regina was like her—if anything, even lovelier. She longed for Regina to win this Competition, it was her one remaining desire. But—” He caught his breath, screwed up his eyes, and went on almost inaudibly: “To think she could plan to kill all those lovely girls, it—it doesn’t bear thinking about. Poor Regina, she—”
“Dickerson,” Roger broke in, “why did you go to St. Cleo’s Vicarage on the night of Betty Gelibrand’s murder?”
Dickerson’s
head jerked up. “Eh? Why did I—but I didn’t! It’s a lie to say that I went there, I haven’t been near St. Cleo’s for years. Years!”
Roger said softly, “Sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Well, your fingerprints were found there,” Roger said very gently. “Yours and Millsom’s. How did you persuade Millsom to meet you there?”
Dickerson gaped.
“Let’s have the truth,” Roger said roughly. “Lying won’t help you. How did you persuade Harold Millsom to leave home and meet you at St. Cleo’s? How did you lure him up on to the roof? How did you manage to suffocate and then loll him with those strangler’s hands of yours?”
“It—it’s a lie! It’s a wicked lie!”
“We know all about it,” Roger rasped. “We know why you wanted to kill the girls, and we know you built up a cover behind Mrs. Howard. You wore her clothes, lured her out when you wanted to make sure she had no alibi, and she was so biddable and grateful to you. Even when you were suspected of the murders, she didn’t believe you guilty for a moment. And you—you disappeared, but were all ready to say it was for her sake, weren’t you? You thought she could be killed before she could deny anything, but the way you fixed it was not quite clever enough. Too desperate, Dickerson. We also know—”
“But why should I want to kill those girls, those lovely girls?” cried Dickerson. “Why should I want to strike them down in the full bloom of their beauty? Why—”
“Just words,” Roger said brusquely; and Chatworth and Dalby seemed to be as much dumbstruck as Dickerson. “You weren’t interested in the girls. You could take their measurements and do it all quite indifferently, couldn’t you? Beauty didn’t mean a thing. But Conway’s did. You hated Conway’s. You believed they’d cheated you out of your business, and you wanted your own back. And you’d brooded over that for thirty years.”
Dickerson opened his mouth as if to scream; but the sound wouldn’t come out.
Roger went on very quietly, “And then this Competition began to bring Conway’s in better business than they’d ever known. You had to help, too; and it brought your hatred to a head. You looked round for a way of damaging the business, getting your own back, hurting Conway’s. And you saw a way to do it while killing beautiful girls. Since Mrs. Howard’s accident you’ve resented beauty, but beauty gave you a spurious motive, one to fool us. Osborn or Talbot might be suspected of trying to clear the way for Regina, but not you. Oh, no, you were quite safe. You worked on both men, and made a final effort to show that it was Talbot, trying to get him to go to the girls. When that didn’t work, you had a last chance—to blame Mrs. Howard.”