Mistress Murder

by Bernard Knight

  ‘The boys upstairs used the usual grouping techniques and this new mixed agglutination test to show that the ABO and MN groups were the same on the handle and the specimen from the post-mortem on Laskey. She was group A, not that it matters to you.’

  Benbow digested this. ‘Does that mean she was definitely hit by that handle and no other?’

  Turnbull shook his head. ‘No … have a heart, Archie; we’re workers, not wizards. But it means that that handle was dipped in human group A blood at some time, and it’s hardly likely to be anyone else, is it, considering she’s got a hole in her head the exact shape of the said bit of metal.’

  ‘Got anything else?’ grunted Benbow.

  ‘Soames has had another look at the fracture and agrees that the starting handle would do very nicely for the offending weapon. He says that she must have been hit from the left side, so that almost certainly means she was in the passenger seat when her killer took a swipe at her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The pathologist says – and I agree with him – that if she was in the driving seat, the murderer couldn’t get a good enough swing to fetch her such a smack as that … the roof of the car would be in the way, it would be too cramped altogether. Looks as if he got her stinking drunk, opened the door on the nearside, and whacked her from there. The yellow fibres were some from a car duster when he attempted to clean a bit of the blood up – or perhaps he put it over the head before he socked her. That would be more like it, it would explain why there were fibres deep in the wound and why there was so little blood matted on the hair.’

  ‘Charming … I bet you think up lovely bedtime stories for your kids, chum,’ said Benbow dryly.

  Turnbull grinned.

  ‘She couldn’t have been driving anyway … I defy any slim young dame to control a car for a hundred yards with a blood alcohol of three twenty … she’d have been flat out, snoring her head off.’

  Benbow beamed. ‘Ain’t science bloody marvellous, Bray?’

  The fresh-faced sergeant nodded obediently.

  ‘So there’s no doubt about our having a murder on the books, sir … we can pull out all the stops to try to get some sense out of the yobs around the top end of Dean Street.’

  Benbow’s smile faded. ‘Huh – some hope. We can pound those streets till our feet show through the soles of our boots, and not get so much as the time of day.’

  Turnbull puffed away calmly.

  ‘You still haven’t heard it all: she had a load of drugs in her as well as the hooch.’

  Benbow looked up sharply. ‘Hard stuff?’

  ‘Heroin.’

  ‘Those marks on her arms were the real thing, then,’ said Bray.

  Turnbull grinned. ‘Yes, lad – and she wasn’t a diabetic having insulin injections, as you suggested at the time.’

  He opened a folder and looked at a copy of Soames’ post-mortem report.

  ‘The most recent injection mark was into the main vein in the left arm – had a little blob of clotted blood on it, so it probably was only a few hours old when she died – looks as if she had a mainliner soon before she was killed. All the others were just under the skin.’

  Benbow nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Filled up with grog, then drugged and finally beaten over the head … nice company she kept!’

  He riffled through the documents that Turnbull had produced then slapped the desk with a dumpy fist.

  ‘We’ve got to find this bastard; he’s in the professional class. He kills when it suits his book, not on impulse.’

  ‘Where’s the motive?’ asked Turnbull, calmly sucking his pipe.

  Benbow threw up his arms dramatically.

  ‘God knows, but where there are drugs, there’s crime … every one in the book. I’ll lay an even fiver with you that the narcotics angle comes into this somewhere.’

  Bray was looking as chirpy as a schoolboy.

  ‘What about the Drugs Squad? Shall I nip over and have a natter to them, sir?’

  The department known loosely as the Drugs Squad was more accurately the Narcotics Office, a small group of detective sergeants whose main job was to regulate the proper usage of dangerous drugs and make spot checks on druggists’ and manufacturers’ records. But apart from this, they held a considerable interest in all forms of importation, both legal and otherwise and had a close link with the Customs people over the problem of smuggling.

  Benbow bobbed his jowls in agreement. ‘May as well, lad. They’ve got their own contacts, something might turn up. We’re never going to get any joy out of that bunch of yobs up the street.’ He jerked a thumb in the general direction of Soho.

  Turnbull hauled himself out of his chair.

  ‘Any good trying to trace where she got her dope?’

  Benbow looked glum. ‘Just a few decks? There are a hundred places in the West End where she could have got them. Still, Bray can see what the narcotics boys can suggest.’

  Turnbull turned to go back to his scientific wonderland upstairs.

  ‘The lads are going over the dust and other stuff from the car for contact traces – if anything comes of it I’ll give you a shout.’

  After he had gone, Bray went back to finish his filing and Benbow mournfully thumbed through the thin folder on Rita Laskey.

  ‘There’s something about this one that gives me the creeps,’ he muttered. ‘Too damn cold-blooded – the chap that did this has killed before, I’ll bet – and he’ll kill again as soon as it suits him.’

  Paul Jacobs made a different entry into London on the following Friday afternoon. He came by train to Paddington as before, the typical provincial businessman. But this time there was none of the toilet and left-luggage routine. He intended to keep clear of Soho for the time being, so he openly took a taxi to his Ferber Street flat.

  He got to his door without seeing a soul except the taxi driver. Once inside, he was as effectively insulated from London as he had been in Cardiff. There was no cleaning woman to pester him and he was delightfully alone.

  The envelope on the mat told him that Snigger had been there; no one else knew of the place. He went into the kitchen and made some coffee while he read and digested the contents of the barman’s message. They disturbed him considerably and he paced the room uneasily, trying to fit this new information into his plans for the coming weekend.

  ‘Conrad Draper, I – I’ve heard of him but never laid eyes on him as far as I know,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve got to know more about this.’

  He went to the telephone in the lounge and rang the landlord of the Queen of Scots in Fulham.

  Twenty minutes later, a taxi dropped the ex-jockey outside and he hurried up to Jacobs’ flat.

  ‘I’m in a spot,’ admitted Paul, after he had settled Snigger down with a glass and a bottle of whisky. ‘I’ve got to get the orders for this weekend; I’m off to Germany tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ve grown a moustache, then,’ observed the barman.

  During the ten days he had been away, Paul had allowed a fair military-style line of hair to grow on his upper lip. It was some help in altering his appearance.

  ‘That ain’t going be half enough disguise if you’re thinking of showing your face around Soho,’ added Snigger.

  ‘Why – only this Draper is looking for me, isn’t he?’

  ‘I hear tell that the police have been asking around a bit since last Saturday. Nothing much at first, but there’s a steady bit of questioning going on. They took the cleaner from Newman Street in for questioning and a few of the tradespeople from around that part.’

  Paul pondered this carefully. ‘Heard any reason why? Your grapevine usually knows everything.’

  Snigger shook his head.

  ‘The dicks have been real canny about this one. They’ve had their hands full of other things this week. A tom got croaked and there were another two bank jobs pulled. But they haven’t dropped a whisper yet about the Rita business.’

  He looked up sharply at the other
man, his bright Cockney eyes questioning.

  ‘Did you rub her out, Mr Golding?’ he asked quietly. ‘I know she helped put the black on you with Draper, so she had it coming. You can tell me, you know, my mouth is tight enough.’

  Paul looked down at him for a moment then nodded abruptly. He trusted Snigger more than anyone, and needed him as an ally more than ever, now things were going to be more difficult.

  ‘Yes, Snigger, I fixed her. I had to – she had got dangerous. It was nothing personal, but she had to go.’

  He paused, stared absently into his glass then told the barman the whole story.

  ‘So you see, Paul Golding can’t exist any more. I’m Paul Harrap from now on. I’m going to lay low for a bit, then work up a new front for myself when I get back from the next trip – take another flat, build up a whole new identity for myself.’

  ‘What about the club?’ asked the ex-jockey. ‘Are you laying off there?’

  ‘I’ll have to go this once to get Silver’s order … after that I’ll avoid it like the plague. You’ll have to do the go-between business for me where Silver is concerned.’

  ‘Where are you going tomorrow – Brussels again?’

  ‘No, Munich this trip.’ Paul Jacobs wearily smoothed back the hair from his forehead. He felt like chucking the whole game up and going straight back to his nice comfortable house, his placid wife and his genuine antique trade.

  But he knew he never would. The little devil deep inside him would always prod him into just one more venture and he couldn’t really afford it, anyway.

  He slumped down beside Snigger and poured another pair of drinks.

  ‘You think he’s after me because he believes I killed Rita?’

  ‘Yes – I dunno if he wants to erase you altogether, but I’d say he wants to let his boys rough you up until you weren’t fit to walk for a month. That’s more his mark … he does it to his non-paying clients – more effective than dragging them to court.’

  Jacobs got up from the settee and went to the window. He stared out pensively at the white tower of the University. ‘He’s the only one who knows about me being involved in drugs?’

  ‘And Ray Silver – and Irish O’Keefe – and me,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Silver will keep his trap shut – it pays him to. You’re OK and O’Keefe I can’t do much about. But it’s Draper who’s the danger … he sounds cracked enough to cause me real trouble.

  Later that evening, Paul slipped as unobtrusively as possible into the Gerrard Street club and made his way straight to the back office. He found the tubby owner adjusting his bowtie before a mirror, in preparation for the announcement of the first cabaret act.

  ‘Can’t spare you more than a minute, Golding.’

  The Portuguese-Chinese mixture in Silver’s blood seemed more than usually prominent tonight, thought Paul. The fat man appeared even more uneasy and twittery than usual.

  ‘I won’t spoil your big moment, Ray,’ he growled. ‘Just give me your order and I’ll be off – I don’t want to hang around myself, as it happens.’

  Silver turned from the mirror and lifted his shoulders in supplication. His sweaty palms were turned to Paul in an age-old gesture of sorrowful regret. ‘Sorry, I can’t take anything this time.’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean? You always want something!’

  ‘I’m pretty well stocked up … and the bobbies have been a bit too active this last day or two, since your girlfriend got herself killed. I’m laying off for a bit. I don’t want to be turned over by the police and have them find drugs on the premises.’

  Paul shrugged in annoyance.

  ‘OK … so you don’t want anything?’

  The Eurasian’s eyes took a crafty glint that was not lost on Jacobs. ‘Not this time, but I might be wanting a special order soon – quite a big one. May be before you show up again, so can you give me an address or phone number where I can get you, huh?’

  Paul ignored the artless attempt to get hold of something to buy off Draper. He went to the door and flung a parting shot over his shoulder.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to back out altogether – it costs a packet to organise these trips to the continent and a few duff orders like this knocks all the profit out of it.’

  Silver did some more hand spreading. ‘Sorry, but I’m playing it nice and safe. Where are you going tomorrow that’s costing you all that much?’

  ‘All the way to Munich … a hell of a long train journey just to buy stuff that I may not be able to sell when I get back,’ snapped Paul. He cut short the club owner’s fawning apologies and stalked away in a bad temper.

  Jacobs climbed the stairs to Gerrard Street and went back to his flat. Fifteen minutes after he had left the Nineties Club, Conrad Draper arrived in his flashy limousine and made his way to Silver’s office.

  Chapter Ten

  The Tauern Express leaves Victoria every afternoon at three o’clock, passing through Cologne, Munich and Salzburg, to reach its destination at Klagenfurt. Paul Jacobs climbed aboard twenty minutes before it pulled out, having no idea that Conrad Draper was already sitting in a first class compartment in the next coach.

  Snigger had known nothing about this latest move and was unable to warn Paul to be on his guard. He had seen Conrad come into the club late on the previous evening, after Jacobs had left without an order, but had no idea that Ray Silver had passed on the tip that Paul was catching the Munich Express.

  Jacobs was travelling under a newly forged passport in the name of Reginald Foster, a post-graduate student from Birmingham University. He did not intend coming back to England in this name for some time. Reginald Foster would go into cold storage in Germany for a few months until he was needed for a return trip. Paul had other plans for making his way back this time.

  He settled his luggage on the rack of a second class compartment. He had a rucksack and a small case, in keeping with his role of an elderly but still impoverished research student. Dropping into his reserved seat – he had stretched his student character enough to have a couchette for the night – he pulled out a magazine and relaxed.

  He had made all the elaborate preparations for the trip some weeks before. A false passport in the name of Franz Shulman had been mailed out to a hotel in Munich – it would be too embarrassing to be searched by the Customs and have it found on his person. These passports were made for him by an accomplished pen-man in Paddington. They cost him a great deal of money, but he considered that it was good value.

  Dead on three o’clock, the long train pulled out on the first stage of its journey to Austria. Both men gazed out from their respective compartments at the wintry London suburbs and then the fields of Kent as the boat-train raced along. Conrad alternatively dozed over his lunchtime whiskies and glanced at the bawdy magazines that he had brought from a Soho shop. Apart from a basal glow of satisfaction about the sweet revenge that was on the way, he had no definite plotting to disturb his lazy mind.

  Paul Jacobs’ brain, a few yards away, was ticking over at high speed, thinking of details of this trip and the next one, which was a run to Marseilles. In addition, as his eyes roamed over the bleak fields of the Weald, he fretted over Silver’s attack of cold feet. This might mean that he would have to reduce his buying or work up new contacts in London if he wanted to keep his profits stable.

  As he mulled over his business, Jacobs was oblivious of the man in the next carriage who was determined to kill him.

  Gigal had been wrong in thinking that Conrad only wanted to find Paul so that his thugs could give him a beating up. The warped mind of the ex-wrestler had been permanently bruised by the insult he had suffered – when Paul had liquidated Draper’s new mistress, he had triggered off the man’s latent madness.

  Silver’s tip-off in the club on the previous night, when Draper had learned of Paul’s intention to catch the Saturday train to Munich, had been too great a temptation for him to miss.

  He sat in his plush first class compartmen
t, the Webley making a slight bulge in his jacket pocket, without making any effort to make sure that Golding really was on the train. His megalomania assured him that no one would dare interfere with the plans of the great Conrad. He was endowed with blind faith in his own invincibility. Draper would have gone all the way to Bavaria without bothering to confirm that the other man was aboard somewhere, but as it happened, he caught a glimpse of Golding as they were transferring to the cross-channel ferry.

  Draper smiled smugly to himself and tapped the automatic in his pocket. He had one great advantage over Golding: he recognised the drug runner at sight from seeing him a few times with Rita, whereas Golding had no reason to know him from Adam.

  The bookie had not the slightest idea of how he was going to deal with his enemy when they got to Munich – again his delusions of utter superiority carried him way above such trivial worries. The idea of failure never crossed his mind – the facts that he was alone in a foreign land, without a word of the language and not even a place to stay, only sank in as the train carried him across Europe.

  Early the next morning, the big cities of southern Germany rolled past the windows: Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, and Ulm. By the time Augsburg was reached, the last big town before Munich itself, Conrad was forced to think of some plan of action, even if it was only to keep Golding in sight when they reached their destination.

  His unimaginative but cunning mind got to work. The more he sat thinking about it, the more difficult his position appeared to be. Though still no thought of failure entered his mind, he began to realise that some careful strategy was needed if he was not to be left standing on the platform whilst Golding vanished in a taxi.

  So when the great diesel engine dragged them to a stop at the Hauptbahnhof Munchen, Conrad was already on the step waiting to hop off at the front end. He wanted to intercept Golding before he vanished into the town.

  Grasping his suitcase, he stepped off and stood in the centre of the platform, with the crowds streaming past him. He kept a sharp lookout for his fellow countryman and soon spotted him coming up the platform, his rucksack bowing him slightly.