The Killing of Olga Klimt

by R. T. Raichev

  She took another sip. He had sounded extremely serious and matter of fact. He had asked her where Aunt Clo-Clo lived, how old she was, what her habits were, whether she had an established routine. He had sounded as though he meant business …

  ‘I do your murder, you do mine. We establish good, solid alibis for the murders that benefit us – we go away – thousands of miles away – the Amazonian Jungle – Acapulco – the police would never get us –’

  Yes, he had sounded as though he meant business.

  She kept her eyes firmly shut. It occurred to her that the present moment was perfect for the killing of Olga Klimt since Charles Eresby was at a private clinic, with doctors and nurses watching over him like hawks round the clock. She might never get another chance as good as this! He didn’t have to go to as far as Acapulco. When Olga’s body was found, he would have the perfect alibi.

  14

  THE PERFECT MURDER (2)

  The murder took place later that same day.

  Olga Klimt received the call on her landline at half past four in the afternoon. It was a stranger who spoke to her. It was a very pleasant kind of voice, cultivated, very English. The only odd thing was that she couldn’t quite say if it was a man or a woman …

  ‘Is that Olga? I am a friend of Charlie’s. He asked me to call you. He needs to see you. It’s rather urgent, in a way, but there is nothing to worry about. Could you go to the clinic at once?’

  The caller rang off before she could ask any questions.

  Olga panicked, she couldn’t help herself. She immediately rang Charlie but his phone was permanently engaged. He couldn’t be that ill then, she reflected, if he was on his phone? Unless someone else was using his phone?

  Both the message and the way the person had spoken were very strange, now that she came to think about it. She wondered if it was Mr Bedaux who had phoned her. Mr Bedaux was a good mimic. What if Mr Bedaux was trying to get her outside Philomel Cottage for some reason?

  No, nonsense. She couldn’t stay in the house. She must go and see Charlie. It was getting dark but she had nothing to fear, really. All she needed to do was walk to the end of the cul-de-sac and then she would be out in the busy main road, where there were people, traffic, lights. She could run, run like the wind …

  She put on her coat. Her hands were shaking slightly. She was scared of Mr Bedaux, of course she was. But he seemed to have disappeared! She hadn’t seen him since that day at the clinic, actually, and Charlie had phoned her earlier on and said he had been unable to get in touch with Bedaux. Well, that was a good thing – wasn’t it? Though, it was also very strange. At one time Mr Bedaux had been phoning her several times a day, asking her how she was, where she was, what she was doing, who she was with, what dress she was wearing …

  There was something sinister about his silence. It suggested that Mr Bedaux somehow knew that she had confessed everything to Charlie. The thought caused Olga to shiver.

  No, she must go! She picked up her bag and walked resolutely across the hall. She opened the front door and stood on the threshold. Not too cold. Looked like rain.

  She glanced around. There was no one in sight. That green refuse bin. She imagined it had moved! No, she was being silly. She didn’t really expect Mr Bedaux to jump out of it! She laughed nervously.

  She turned and inserted the key in the lock …

  There was something wrong with the key – it refused to turn or perhaps it was her – she was nervous – she’d heard a noise – plaintive wailing – the kitten was mewing in the hall, scratching the door –

  Her hands were shaking really badly now. What was wrong with the key?

  The knife had been carefully sharpened and it entered the girl’s back without any resistance.

  She didn’t so much as utter a sound, only a kind of a gasp.

  She pitched forward and fell.

  There wasn’t much blood but some of it seeped into her luminously blonde hair.

  ‘What seems to be the problem now?’ The Nanny Everett nurse stood at the end of the bed, regarding him with her faintly censorious expression.

  ‘I can’t get my girlfriend. She isn’t answering her mobile.’ Charles Eresby glanced at the clock on the wall. It was quarter to six.

  ‘No need to get into a state,’ the nurse said comfortably. ‘Perhaps she is on the Tube. No network if you are on the Tube. You should know that.’

  ‘Maybe she is on the Tube, yes.’

  He didn’t know why he felt so anxious.

  He had had a call earlier on. Someone from his bank had phoned him and kept talking to him for a very long time. Now that he thought about it there had been something wrong about that call. The person’s voice had sounded muffled – as though he didn’t want to be recognised?

  I mustn’t get paranoid, Charlie thought. His heart was beating rapidly. It must be the coffee, he decided. He was drinking too much coffee. That was it.

  ‘Would that be the young lady who paid you a visit the other day? The fair-haired young lady?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’ He had no intention of discussing Olga with the Nanny Everett nurse.

  ‘Were you expecting her?’

  ‘No. Not really. Not tonight. She said she would come tomorrow morning. I – I just wanted to talk to her.’ Charles Eresby looked down at his mobile phone and once more he pressed Olga’s number.

  He held the mobile to his ear. Please, leave a message.

  ‘It will be the six o’clock news soon,’ said the nurse. ‘Would you like me to turn on the TV?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Would you like a drink? A cup of tea?’

  ‘No, nothing, thank you. I have a bit of a headache, actually.’ Charles Eresby lay back on his bed and shut his eyes.

  ‘You won’t be able to go to sleep later on if you start snoozing now,’ she warned him.

  She clearly didn’t see she was being a nuisance. If he had had a Pierrot, he would have thrown it at her!

  Eventually he heard her leave the room. He knew she meant well but she could be annoying … He mustn’t be ungrateful … They had been taking very good care of him here … No, he didn’t feel like going back to Sloane Square … and to Bedaux … There was no question of his keeping Bedaux … If Bedaux tried to bother Olga in any way, he would call the police … He hoped Olga’s silence didn’t have anything to do with Bedaux … He had no need of a valet … Ridiculous idea, when one came to think of it … ‘George V valet’ … That was private code for death, if Charlie remembered correctly, the invention of some controversial politician, now dead. No, not for death exactly, rather, for fear of dying while asleep and being found by a servant the following morning … How morbid that was!

  No more valets, Charlie thought.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but there is a message for you.’

  Charlie opened his eyes.

  It was the young nurse with the silly snub-nosed face. She was standing by the door.

  ‘What message?’

  ‘Someone phoned – they left a number for you to call – they said it was very urgent.’ Coming up to the bed, she handed him a slip of paper.

  Charles Eresby stared down at the number. It was a mobile phone number he didn’t recognise. For some reason, he didn’t quite know why, he didn’t like the look of it. ‘Didn’t the caller leave a name?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir. I thought it was a gentleman at first but I am not sure. I think it was someone who knew you were here, with us, but they didn’t know your mobile number.’

  He nodded. ‘That makes sense. Thank you, nurse.’

  The door closed behind her.

  He dialled the number.

  His call was answered almost at once.

  ‘Hallo?’ Charlie said. ‘Hallo? Who is that?’

  There was a silence but he could hear someone’s laboured breathing.

  ‘Hallo? You left a message – It’s Charles Eresby speaking –�
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  ‘Olga Klimt is dead,’ a voice said. ‘Exactly as you wanted it. Now it’s your turn. You’ll need to do your part of the deal.’

  15

  ‘PHILOMEL COTTAGE’

  Sobs racked his body and tears streamed down his face.

  He sat in the back of a cab. He was wearing his silk pyjamas, monogrammed dressing gown and slippers. He didn’t really care if the driver saw his tears or not. He had rushed out of his room, unheeding of the alarmed noises Nanny Everett and the other nurse were making. He had expected some kind of opposition as he had run out of the main entrance, but no one had attempted to stop him.

  Olga, Olga, Olga. He kept whispering her name.

  His heart was beating violently. It’s my fault, he thought. I did order her killing. He’d remembered. It had all come back to him. He had been in a befuddled state when he made his proposition. He had been drunk. That awful sweet sherry! Like drinking liquid Demerara sugar! He had wanted Olga dead. It had been his idea. But who would have thought that that fat lump would take it seriously? He couldn’t even remember her name! He had sensed something in her, similar vibes, a similar aura, whatever it was. Perhaps would-be killers possessed some kind of radar?

  Miss Frayle, that was her name. Yes. Miss Frayle had gone and killed Olga. She was mad, must be! I never meant it, he whispered. I never meant it. I was extremely upset – not myself! Please, Olga, forgive me!

  It couldn’t have been a prank call, could it? No. Something about the caller’s voice had struck him as chillingly genuine. What was it? Controlled panic. Yes. Her voice had sounded harsh with suppressed hysteria …

  Someone less like a hired assassin he could not imagine – Miss Frayle had oozed stolid common sense – but now she seemed to expect him to do her murder! She wanted him to kill her aunt. He remembered the aunt’s name because of its sheer absurdity – Aunt Cluck-Cluck – something like that.

  He remembered his exact words. He had said he would kill the aunt – but Miss Frayle had to kill Olga first.

  Oh Lord. Oh, Lord. He buried his face in his hands …

  His mobile phone rang. Automatically he put it to his ear.

  It was Mummy. He didn’t want to speak to Mummy. He sobbed.

  ‘Charlie? What’s the matter, darling?’ Deirdre Collingwood asked.

  ‘Olga – Olga is dead.’ At once he regretted saying it. No one should know Olga was dead! He turned off the phone.

  It rang almost at once. His mother clearly wanted to know details. I am not answering, he thought.

  ‘My fault, my fault, my fault,’ he whispered. He hadn’t been himself. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible misunderstanding. People uttered the most appalling idiocies when they were drunk and upset. The fat nanny had deprived him of the one person he loved more than anything else in the world!

  He tried to get a grip on himself. He blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief.

  No – she couldn’t have killed Olga – impossible – Olga was not dead – Olga couldn’t be dead – things like that did not happen – strangers didn’t exchange murders – she could not be dead …

  But she was.

  The body lay across the threshold, half in, half out of the open front door. He had asked the taxi to stop at the end of the cul-de-sac and had got out and run the short distance to the house … Philomel Cottage … It was he who had bought it for her … He remembered how Olga had clapped her hands in delight when he explained that it meant nightingale …

  Tears streamed down his face. He knelt beside the body – reached out and touched her hair – there was a dark patch on her back – it felt sticky –

  Blood.

  She must have been stabbed, though there was no sign of a knife. At least he couldn’t see a knife. Had Miss Frayle taken the knife with her?

  He thought of going into the house and turning on the hall light, but decided against it. There was a full moon, bathing the ghastly scene in its silvery light and with every second he saw more – the dark stain on Olga’s back became darker – she was wearing a light-coloured coat –

  He heard a scratching noise followed by faint mewing – something soft brushed against him – the kitten – the poor little kitten – it was he who had given it to her. He picked it up. The kitten licked his fingers. He put it inside his breast pocket. They had meant to give it a name but had never got around to it …

  His nostrils caught the whiff of a perfume – Olga’s perfume?

  No, it wasn’t. He was familiar with Olga’s perfume.

  He had the uncanny feeling of being watched and turned abruptly.

  He saw a silhouette – a man standing very still, very straight, only a couple of paces away, looking not at him, but at Olga’s body.

  Charlie rose. The man’s figure was familiar – too familiar.

  ‘Bedaux?’

  I keep my hands inside my pockets as Mr Eresby tells me that Olga is dead. I remain silent. I believe Mr Eresby is wearing one of his five dressing gowns: the dark blue one with the dove-grey lapels.

  In my right hand I clutch at the length of rope I brought with me. I clutch at it as though my life depends on it. It occurs to me that I won’t need it now.

  I am motionless, speechless, breathless. I am aware of my lips moving, articulating her name. Olga. Olga. I can’t tear my eyes from her body. I can’t see it very well from where I stand but I feel no desire to go anywhere near it.

  This, I tell myself, is the end.

  Suddenly the choking sensation in my throat lifts. Now I feel nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  ‘She has been killed – I found her – she – she’s been stabbed!’ Mr Eresby stammers.

  Without a single word I turn round and walk back towards the main road.

  Charlie made no attempt to stop him. The last thing he felt like doing at this very moment was talk to Bedaux. Somehow he didn’t believe Bedaux would call the police. From what Olga had told him, Bedaux had too many skeletons in his cupboard to want to have to anything to do with the police.

  The kitten in his pocket mewed again …

  Some instinct of self-preservation then began to assert itself and Charlie emerged from his stupor. He rose.

  The police. He must call the police. That was what any law-abiding citizen would do in the circumstances. He knew he would immediately become their prime suspect. Olga had been his girlfriend. He was the rich boyfriend. It was his house. They wouldn’t bother to look for anyone else –

  But he had an alibi! He had been in bed at the clinic when he got the phone call. The murder had been committed by then – that could be proven quite easily – he would have to do a lot of explaining, though – he would have to tell them about the woman from the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School and their conversation – how they’d exchanged murders – then the ball would be back in his court – oh God – what was he to do?

  The nursery nut – that bloody Miss Frayle! He couldn’t very well tell the police it was her without implicating himself – would they believe him that he’d never meant her to kill Olga?

  He sniffed the air – that perfume again! Where had he smelled it before?

  There was something wrong, though he couldn’t say what it was. Well – everything was wrong! Things couldn’t be more wrong.

  He couldn’t possibly go on standing there any longer, with the front door to Philomel Cottage gaping open and Olga’s bloodied corpse lying across the threshold …

  The next moment his mobile rang again.

  He stood staring down at the name displayed on the illuminated monitor in shocked disbelief.

  Olga? Olga was ringing him …

  No, it couldn’t be her. Olga?

  Shivers ran down his spine and his hair stood on end, but then realisation dawned on him and his irrational horror turned to outrage.

  It was Olga’s killer calling him. Miss Frayle had taken Olga’s mobile. It was Miss Frayle who was ringing him from Olga’s mobile phone.

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nbsp; And of course that was Miss Frayle’s perfume that hung round the body.

  16

  CALL ON THE DEAD

  Major Payne lowered the book. ‘Nobody’s ever drunk, they are “inebriated”. Nobody hurries, they “hasten”. And flowers are invariably “bedecked”. It is all unbearably sycophantically courteous. It might have been written by a courtier.’

  ‘Wasn’t Shawcross a courtier?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s a journalist.’

  ‘I bet her gowns and hats and boas are described in vivid detail?’ Antonia smiled.

  ‘Yes, they are. In vivid vacuous detail …’ Payne opened the hefty tome at random. ‘Listen to this. “Cream chiffon moiré with appliqué bars of silver lame … Ivory georgette, heavily beaded … Japonica-pink velvet …” It’s strictly for readers that are secretly drawn to sartorial orgies … This seems less a biography of a person than a swatch of high-end dress fabric!’

  ‘No satirical edges?’

  ‘None whatsoever. All deadly serious, solemn, bland and adulatory.’

  ‘She lived to be a hundred and one. How could anyone write about her without a satirical edge?’

  ‘That’s what I keep asking myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t one get to know what she was like? I mean – really like?’

  ‘Well, no. I don’t think so. I was particularly curious to find out what it was that made Hitler call her the “most dangerous woman in Europe”, also more details of her treatment of Diana, but there is nothing about any of that. What one gets instead is the highly dramatic account of how, on one memorable occasion, she almost walks into a diplomatic reception wearing the légion d’honneur on the wrong shoulder.’

  ‘Wow,’ Antonia said.

  ‘The key word, please note, is “almost”. There are lots of opportunities for high comedy, but they have been missed.’

  ‘It’s such a big book.’

  ‘Yes! More than a thousand pages.’