by John Creasey
Entwhistle said gruffly, “I suppose I took it for granted that I would. I just walked. I couldn’t even tell you where I went - I just had to keep on the move.”
“Mr. Entwhistle, saying that you suppose you took your return for granted is hardly an answer to the question,” Golightly observed. “Did you intend to return or not?”
“I - I suppose so.”
“Why did you leave at all?”
“I was so - so shocked. I wanted to think.”
“Do you think it normal for a man who comes in and finds his wife murdered to need to go out and think before deciding that he should telephone the police, send for a doctor, and also send for someone to look after his children?”
Entwhistle said bleakly, “I should think normality hardly came into it. In such a situation a man does not have much practice. You must take it from me that I needed to think.”
“Why?”
“The whole thing knocked me cold.”
“Mr. Entwhistle,” Golightly said, “it is not unknown for a husband to have good reason to be jealous of his wife, to have cause for bitterness and resentment. Did you have any reason to be jealous of your wife?”
Entwhistle’s forehead was shiny with sweat, and there was a fractional pause before he answered, “I’ve told you already! I’m not the jealous type!”
“I would like you to tell me again, for the record,” said Golightly, glancing at the plain-clothes man, who was making his notes with effortless ease, hardly pausing except when there was a much longer gap than usual between question and answer. “Had you reason to be jealous?”
“I had a filthy letter from some damned busybody, probably a woman who didn’t know what she was talking about. It made all kinds of accusations. I knew where to put that.”
“Did you believe the accusations, Mr. Entwhistle?”
“I’ve told you before - I don’t give a damn what people say. I’m no plaster saint myself. My wife was on her own for three years, with the kids to look after, and if she had some companionship, male, I wouldn’t blame her. In fact I’d rather she was happy with someone else than sitting miserable at home by herself, wishing she were dead.”
“What makes you think she would have wished she were dead?” flashed Golightly.
“That was a figure of speech.”
“In the circumstances, a very sinister one,” Golightly rasped.
As he spoke, the door opened and another, much bigger man came in. Entwhistle had the feeling that he had seen him before, but couldn’t place him. Golightly jumped up and the plain-clothes man sprang to attention, so this was a V.I.P. There was something about the rugged face and the penetrating grey eyes beneath rather shaggy eyebrows which impressed Entwhistle.
“Good evening, Commander,” said Golightly. “This is Mr. Geoffrey Entwhistle. Mr. Entwhistle, this is Commander Gideon.”
Ah! Gideon.
Gideon, to Entwhistle’s surprise, shook hands; his grip was very powerful. His gaze was searching, even disconcerting, and against him Golightly faded into insignificance. The sergeant brought another chair for Gideon, who sat down. When they were all seated, he said dryly, “I heard that unfortunate figure of speech. Go on from there, Superintendent.”
“That’s all it was,” Entwhistle said sharply, his voice slightly higher than normal.
“So you said,” murmured Gideon.
That was the moment when Entwhistle’s spirits dropped, when he felt the net really closing in. There was no justification at all for their suspicions of him; but who would believe it? It was his own fault, his innocent folly, the way he had behaved last night with never a thought to safeguard his position. Didn’t these coppers understand what could happen to a man who came in and found his wife dead, murdered? What harm had the delay in reporting her death done to her?
Golightly said in a subdued voice: “Mr. Entwhistle has somewhat unconventional attitudes towards marital fidelity, Commander. He was told anonymously that his wife had a lover, but (a) refused to believe it and (b) said that he himself being no saint, had no right to do other than expect her to amuse herself in her own way. Is that correct, Mr. Entwhistle?”
“I think I’ll have the question and answer verbatim,” Gideon said.
There was a pause as he looked expectantly at the shorthand notes. The plain-clothes man flipped over a page, collected himself, and began to read in a heavy, expressionless voice of deadly monotony. Every word was enunciated carefully, everything was verbatim, but as Entwhistle heard, his heart went cold within him. He knew exactly how his words, without his own inflections, struck Gideon; how heartless and improbable they sounded. He watched Gideon’s face and saw the way his expression hardened and bleakness touched his eyes.
The stenographer finished.
Gideon nodded, and said, “Was your wife aware of your attitude toward such matters, Mr. Entwhistle?”
“I doubt it.”
“Don’t you know?”
“It’s hardly a subject I would discuss with her, is it?” asked Entwhistle. Try as he might, he could not keep a cold, half-sneering tone out of his voice, and knew that almost every word strengthened the bad impression he was making. The worst thing was his inability to explain what had driven him away from the house last night. How could he explain what he could not explain to himself? It had been like coming home to a nightmare, going off had been a kind of effort to wake himself up. . . And yet in another way he had simply run from the hideous reality, not wanting to admit the truth.
“Did you know your wife’s lover?” Golightly demanded.
“I’ve told you, I don’t even know that she had one!”
“Did you have any reason to suspect she had a lover before you left England three years ago?” Golightly’s merciless voice did not change tone or expression as his questions went on and on.
“What do you make of him?” Golightly asked Gideon.
“Not much, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer,” Gideon said. “I’d let him go home and see what happens in the next day or two, before charging him. Meanwhile you’ll want the name of the neighbour who wrote that letter, and—”
Golightly ventured to interrupt. “It’s all under control, Commander.”
“Good,” grunted Gideon.
That evening Eric Greenwood bought a later edition of the Evening Globe, found the story of his murder on an inside page, and read:
Mr. Geoffrey Entwhistle, the dead woman’s husband, was at Scotland Yard for several hours this afternoon, helping the police in their inquiries.
“That means they suspect him!” Greenwood muttered, and the expression in his eyes was not far short of exultation.
Entwhistle, alone in that house of evil memory, read the same paragraph, recalled the interrogation vividly, and gave a sudden, uncontrollable shiver.
Sally Dalby shivered, too. She was just coming round from a long, long sleep in that room of a thousand photographs, and she did not yet feel the horror, the shame, nor even the first onset of the longing for whatever had given her that glow of exhilaration.
The office day was over for Gideon and he felt the usual mixture of satisfaction with work done, dissatisfaction with all that had been left undone, and a slight gloom because there were matters he was a long way from being happy about. The Entwhistle murder, for one; he had not taken to the suspected man but that didn’t make him a murderer, and he wondered whether anyone burdened with a sense of guilt could talk so carelessly. He hoped Golightly’s efforts with the dead woman’s photographs would soon bring results; if there had been a lover, he wanted to check the man’s movements closely and talk to him before any arrest was made. There was obviously a possibility that Entwhistle, if scared, would do something silly; that would go a long way toward removing any doubts about him.
The nude photographs and the drug murder possibility were an even greater worry; because of his own daughters he was always sensitive to danger involving young girls. Almost guiltily, he realized that he hadn’t
given Penelope more than an occasional thought during the day.
There was another thing, which made Gideon angry with himself. He hadn’t yet briefed Lemaitre about the church and cathedral problem. But surely there couldn’t be any urgency about that.
9: THE VANDAL
London’s crime lay hidden under a mask of peace and quietude. The church of St. Denys, tucked away in Kensington behind the great museums, stood dark and still - except in the Lady Chapel, where a single dim bulb glowed. The South Door stood open as it always had, for the Vicar of St. Denys believed that souls could be saved at any hour of the day or night and that the best place for saving them was the church. There were many like him, but few had earned his reputation, gained in two world wars and since consolidated. In some ways he was regarded as a Fighting Parson, although nowadays there were few who could more truly be called men of peace.
His vicarage was a street away, for St. Denys was sandwiched between two massive blocks of offices, built on sites cleared by bombing. No one lived next to the church excepting the caretakers.
The South Door led from a dark, narrow lane between the church and one of the dimly lit office buildings. A man appeared from the direction of a car park near the Albert Hall, walking on rubber-soled shoes. His advance was not furtive, nor could it be called bold. He glanced over his shoulder as he neared the church, clearly visible had anyone been there to see, noticed no one, and turned into the lane.
A moment or two later, he pushed wider the South Door and stepped inside. He did not hesitate but stepped straight to the altar, which apparently he knew well. He went behind it, a shadowy figure, pale-faced, a man of medium build and height. He knelt down. At first it looked as if he were praying with his back to the cross, but in fact his hands were busy. He took out an object that looked like a candle with a very long wick and pushed this beneath the altar, tucking it close against the marble. He withdrew, bent down on one knee, took a lighter from his pocket and snapped it on.
Flame flickered.
He picked up the end of the fuse, held the flame to it, and kept his hand steady as the strands slowly caught. He carried the fuse, the flame gaining rapidly in strength, close to the steps leading to the nave, put it down, and without a backward glance walked out of the South Door. Outside in the alley he waited only long enough to see if anyone was in the street, then walked briskly toward the car park. He was near it when he heard a muffled explosion. It had no outward effect on him, and he stepped into a pale blue Morris 1000, one of the most commonplace cars in England, and drove off.
His thin, austere face was quite relaxed. It showed no sign of vindication or rejoicing, of pleasure or of gloating; only the rather arid satisfaction of a man whose task is done.
Several people heard the explosion, one of them a young policeman in Princes Way, one a taxi driver waiting for a fare to come out of a block of flats near the Albert Hall, one a young woman at a window on the third floor of a house nearly opposite the car park - the only house within sight of the church. She was restless and, for no particular reason, walked to the window. She saw the man, heard the explosion, heard a car engine start up and, a few minutes afterward, saw a shabby Morris appear from the car park and nose its way along the street.
The policeman was very alert.
In his experience an explosion was followed up by some kind of flurry. If a gas or an oil heater had burst, as they sometimes did, the alarm was quickly raised; but he saw and heard no one, although he was quite sure it had been no small matter.
The thing which sprang to his mind immediately was: someone’s blown a safe. No one would create a flurry after that.
Should he call for help? Or should he first find out what had happened? If he brought a patrol car for nothing he would look a proper fool; on the other hand if he didn’t and a burglary was reported next morning, he would never forgive himself. He quickened his pace, sure of the direction from which the sound of the explosion had come. One of the two big office blocks, most likely - there must be dozens of safes in each of them.
All was still and silent.
Across the road was a telephone kiosk, and making a swift decision he went into it and dialled 999.
“Wait there,” the Information Room Inspector ordered.
Less than two minutes later, a car pulled up at the corner, and the police constable recognized men from his own Division. The driver leaned out.
“What’s on, Charley?”
“I heard a bang.”
“Getting nervous out here on your own?”
“No, seriously. It came from along here.” The constable looked toward St. Denys, without giving the church a thought. “Might have been in one of the offices.”
“We’ll find out,” the driver said. “See anyone?”
“I heard a car, that’s all. It must have gone the other way.”
“Let’s check,” said the man next to the driver. They climbed out of the car, three big, matter-of-fact detectives whose job was simply to seek out bad men, and walked with long strides toward the buildings - and incidentally toward St. Denys. As they passed the end of the lane the uniformed man saw a flicker of raw, undisciplined light.
“Look!” he exclaimed.
“The church!” breathed the driver. “Come on!”
They turned hurriedly into the lane, and as they neared the door flames showed vividly at a small window. One man spun round, ejaculating “Fire!” and ran back to the car. The others thrust their way into the church, and as they did so the red and yellow of leaping flames shone on their faces, on the pillars, on the choir stalls. Regimental standards, hanging in tatters, were already alight, a magnificent seventeenth-century tapestry was smouldering, the altar cloth and the rich Persian runner in front of and behind the altar were in flames. The altar itself had been smashed to smithereens, and pieces of marble had been flung about the nave, striking walls and wood but, strangely, missing the windows.
The three policemen tore at the standards, then the tapestry, stamping out what they could, until the fire brigade bell sounded and a fire engine roared up.
Gideon did not hear about the latest sacrilegious vandalism until half-past eight next morning, when he was about to leave for the office. Kate was in the kitchen, looking through a daily newspaper; all the children were out, including Penelope, who had appeared quite bright and cheerful. Gideon answered the telephone, which was in the hall of this high-ceilinged Victorian house, and leaned against the side of the staircase as he did so.
“George?” It was Hobbs.
“Hallo.”
“Are you on your way?”
“Nearly.”
“Good,” said Hobbs. “I’ve put my foot in it.”
“What’s ‘it’?” asked Gideon, covering his surprise at such an admission.
“I thought you’d told Lemaitre about the church investigation, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”
“My fault,” said Gideon promptly. He felt sure this wasn’t the sole reason for the call. “I was pushed for time and wanted to brief him properly. What brought the question up?”
“There was an explosion in St. Denys Church, Kensington, last night,” answered Hobbs. “I found Lemaitre here and asked him why he wasn’t at Kensington. The remark wasn’t appreciated.”
“I can imagine,” Gideon said. It was a thousand pities that Hobbs had got off on the wrong foot with Lemaitre, but that wasn’t the pre-eminent worry: the church affair was. “Where’s Lemaitre now?” he asked.
“Here. Says he’ll go to St. Denys on your instructions or not at all.”
There was, as always, something reserved about Hobbs, and it would be easy to infer a kind of criticism - that he, Gideon, should not have allowed this situation to develop. Gideon pushed the thought aside.
“Have me transferred to him,” he said. “And I’ll be late. I’ll go to St. Denys first.”
“Very well,” said Hobbs.
Lemaitre was soon on the line.
&nb
sp; “Lemaitre,” he announced with an excessive precision which indicated that he was standing on his dignity.
“Meet me at St. Denys as soon as you can get there,” Gideon ordered. “Bring a driver, and look through the papers the Dean brought me yesterday while you’re on your way.”
“Er—” said Lemaitre, his tone softening; and then it hardened again. “Right!”
Twenty minutes later, Gideon drew up near the church and saw Lemaitre getting out of a car a hundred yards away. A police car and a builder’s van were parked nearby, and there was a small crowd of people, mostly young, two policemen and several newspaper reporters and photographers. One of the reporters came up to Gideon, a sandy-haired man whose round face was peppered with freckles.
“Taking this seriously then, Commander?” He had a faint Scottish accent.
“We always take crime seriously,” Gideon replied gravely.
Another, older, hard-faced man spoke, and two cameras clicked, one flashing bright against the dark buildings and an overcast sky.
“Do you think there is a campaign against the Church, Mr. Gideon?”
Gideon’s reaction was swift as light, but he did not make the mistake of answering too quickly.
“Good Lord, no! What makes you ask such a question?”
“There was a break-in at St. Ludd’s Cathedral, remember.”
“There have been thefts from churches since there were churches,” Gideon said dryly. “Gold and silver still have a good value whether they come from a private house, a museum, or a church.” He looked up at Lemaitre, who had a way of walking which seemed to use up a lot of energy, knees slightly knocking, arms swinging with unnecessary vigour. He was smiling his official smile.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Good morning, Superintendent.”
“Commander,” the sandy-haired man asked, “is it true that Chief Superintendent Hobbs is to be the next Deputy Commander?”
All the Press men were looking at Lemaitre, not at Gideon, and Gideon half feared a sharp reaction from Lemaitre. Instead, his grin broadened and he said bluffly, “Couldn’t be a better man if he is.”