Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  Then her doubts had been born.

  Why had Jimmy been so anxious to get rid of her? Why had he and Michael planned this between them, sending her to the cottage which Jimmy had bought, years ago, for a quiet retreat from London? Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded? At least she knew the answer to that one: she had lacked moral courage all her life. Even at twenty-four, one could not change a lifetime’s habits very easily. Being on her own, with only the gramophone records for company, and an old machine which needed winding up for every record, had helped her to see vividly that she should not have left London; that here was one of the reasons for hating herself. At first she had fought against believing that Maggie had been killed, then she had developed an overwhelming need to know more about it, and had turned on the radio at news time, getting a faint volume from the nearly-flat battery, and hearing confirmation that Margaret had been found, murdered, in her own room. She had been dead in that room all the morning, until Jimmy and Michael – they had told Vanity – had been puzzled because she had not answered the telephone, and had gone to see her.

  Jimmy had found her; dead.

  Within half an hour, he had telephoned Vanity to say that he was coming over at once, and Vanity had waited for him.

  The third day at the cottage had been even worse, for the radio had faded completely, and she had been desperate for news. Then she had been lucky. Walking across the moorland between the cottage and the cliffs to a favourite picnic spot, she had found part of the morning’s newspaper on the ground, where someone had sat on it as protection against the wet grass. She had seen Maggie’s photograph, read the whole dreadful story, and learned that the police were anxious to interview her. Jimmy and Michael had been mentioned several times, and Jimmy had been quoted as saying that he had no idea where Vanity was. The newspaper had seized on that with a great headline:

  IS VANITY ROY ALIVE?

  Do the police suspect that Vanity Roy is the second victim of the slasher who killed her beautiful sister in dead of night …

  She would have returned to London that day, but had missed the only afternoon train. So she had caught the early train next morning, reached London soon after ten o’clock, and gone straight to Scotland Yard. The man who had first interviewed her had been big and bold-looking, almost the wolf type, although nothing he had said or done suggested that: a gleam in the eye was the same all the world over. Then she had seen the big, elderly man with the heavy cold, who had listened to her story and seemed to believe it, and also to believe her when she said that she felt she owed it to Maggie to give all the assistance she could.

  In fact, she felt in some compelling way that she owed it to Maggie to help find her murderer – whoever that was.

  Now she was in the taxi, still wondering whether she knew the real reason why Jimmy and Michael had persuaded her to go to Lynn. Had it been just because they had wanted to shield her?

  The taxi was following her, but at a traffic block in Regent Street, two drivers had cut in and separated hers from the pursuing taxi. She had paid her driver through the window, and got out; and as she had reached the pavement the traffic had started to move, and apparently the man following had not noticed her.

  It was very warm in London, and the smell of petrol fumes was thick and unpleasant after the country; London was always a disappointment for the first day back, but on the second it began to spread its arms and take hold of her. She wasn’t thinking of London then, but crossed the road and then went down a subway to Piccadilly Station, with its shops and air of bustle, the continual stream of people going to and from the escalators, the patient ticket collectors. She went to a telephone kiosk, and called Jimmy’s number. She saw two people come up and then look impatient because no other box was free, while she held on. Jimmy was out, of course, the ringing sound was going on and on, and the couple were staring as if willing her to put the receiver down and come away.

  The ringing sound stopped, there was a clatter of noise, and then Jimmy said breathlessly: ‘Hallo, who’s that?’

  ‘Jimmy …’

  ‘Van!’

  ‘Jimmy, I’m back. I couldn’t stay down there any longer. I’ve been to the police.’

  ‘Van, but why?’ He was still breathless, and he sounded sharply disapproving, as if blaming her for some grave offence. ‘You were out of everything down there.’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘Well, you can’t blame anyone but yourself.’

  ‘I don’t want to blame anyone else. Jimmy, I must see you.’

  ‘I’m absolutely tied up this afternoon, Van, but I’ll get away as soon as I can. How about six o’clock? I could meet—’

  ‘I can’t wait until six o’clock.’ Vanity was hurriedly emphatic. ‘I’ve just got to talk to you or Michael. I’ve been on my own too long, if I don’t talk to someone I’ll go mad.’

  ‘Now don’t be ridiculous, Van.’ Jimmy could be more uncle than cousin, and the stern disciplinarian of the family when necessary. ‘I’m sorry if it was the wrong thing to do, but we did it for your sake, you know. Have you still a key to the flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, come straight here,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I’ll call Michael and ask him to come too – one of us will be there by five at the latest.’

  ‘All right, Jimmy, thanks. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Van, what did they ask you?’

  ‘Who—oh, the police? They just asked me where I’d been and why I hadn’t been to see them before.’

  ‘Did you tell them what we agreed you would say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good. Now get over to the flat and make yourself a cup of tea. If anyone rings the bell or knocks on the door, I shouldn’t answer. Reporters have been worrying us ever since the body was discovered. There weren’t any there this afternoon when I came back, so they might have given up. Can’t be sure, though.’

  ‘I won’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t,’ said Jimmy. ‘Now don’t worry at all, pet. The worst is over by now.’

  He rang off.

  The couple had disappeared, and Vanity saw them squeezed together in another telephone box. She put her receiver down slowly, and a man hurried forward, as if afraid that he would be beaten at the door. She went slowly towards the Shaftesbury Avenue steps, jostled by a crowd of women shoppers, all heavily laden. She quickened her pace and reached the street. The Circus, now behind her, was crowded with cars and the pavement was thronged, with Eros aiming his arrow pointlessly towards the sky.

  It was half-past three, and if Jimmy wasn’t going to be at the flat until five o’clock, that meant she would have too much time on her hands, and she didn’t want to be alone any longer. Yet here, among the crowds, she felt unutterably lonely. Two policemen passed without giving her a glance; three young men, all jabbering in a foreign language she didn’t recognise, glanced and then gaped at her. A tall American, immaculately dressed and the coolest looking in sight, was obviously intrigued by her. The only time men didn’t stare was when she was with Margaret; then they looked at Margaret first.

  Margaret. Oh, Maggie!

  How it hurt.

  She bought an evening newspaper, and there was a single column headline:

  VANITY ROY STILL MISSING

  She folded the paper and put it under her arm, then began to walk briskly back the way she had come, then to Leicester Square, where there were queues of people at one of the cinemas, and where electric light wasted itself on the sunlit day. Soon she was crossing Trafalgar Square, past thousands of pigeons fluttering and squeaking; hundreds of children had their arms stretched out timidly, birds were pecking disdainfully, photographers were clucking their tongues and clicking their fingers to get both bird and child to pose. The fountains were playing, and there was a gentle spray which cooled the air and fell lightly upon Vanity’s face. She crossed at the Strand, and then got a Number 11 bus. She hardly noticed the other passeng
ers. As the bus turned into Whitehall, she saw a man who looked like Michael, tall and dark and glossy haired, hurrying across the road; it wasn’t Michael. There was a flash of colour at the Horse Guards, where two soldiers, disappointingly small, stood motionless on duty. The big buildings on either side might have been miles away, but Big Ben caught her eye and then the Abbey. She looked away; for she had been there at Easter, with Maggie.

  A conductress came up, holding out a black hand, the palm almost as pale as Vanity’s, and asked in a pleasant, husky voice: ‘Fare please, ma’am.’

  ‘Chelsea Town Hall, please.’

  ‘Four pennies, ma’am.’

  The lights, the crowds, the rhythm of London, the solid squareness of the buildings, the sight of Scotland Yard just down a little side street did something to ease the burden on Vanity’s mind. She told herself that she was suffering from shock and solitude, that when she actually saw Jimmy and Michael she would realise that it was nonsense to have the slightest suspicion. If only they hadn’t been so anxious to bundle her away. Yes, she felt much better. She got off at Chelsea Town Hall, and then walked briskly along the narrow streets to the Embankment, not knowing that she passed several policemen, then on the lookout for her, and missed them only by a few yards. Soon she was in the little crescent of Georgian houses overlooking the Thames, the two bridges near here, the ugly squat mass of the Battersea Power Station on the right of the riverside panorama. She hardly noticed this, or the shimmering of the sunlight on the broad Thames, just then at high tide. She noticed a man standing near one corner of the crescent, but gave him little thought; she didn’t recognise him, and he did not approach her. No one was near Number 17, View Crescent, where Jimmy had a top, studio flat. She found the front door open; sometimes it was locked, sometimes a tenant of one of the other flats left it on the latch. Inside, it was dark when she shut the door. The stairs were carpeted, and she made no sound as she went up, passing the two landings before reaching Jimmy’s. Here it was brighter, because there was a roof light over the landing. She opened her bag, took out her keys, selected Jimmy’s, and inserted it.

  As she opened the door, she heard someone move inside. So Jimmy was here. She felt a glow of appreciation as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  Jimmy didn’t appear; perhaps he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘I’m here, Jimmy!’

  He didn’t reply; no one replied. Yet she was sure that she had heard the sound. She stood with her back to the door, staring about the living room, which led to the kitchen and bathroom on one side, the huge studio and the tiny bedroom on the other.

  ‘Jimmy!’

  He wouldn’t play the fool just now, and nor would Michael. If they weren’t here, then who was?

  Her heart began to pound. In a flurry of alarm she swung round towards the door, snatching at the latch, to open it. As she did so, she looked over her shoulder.

  She saw a man’s shadow cast into the room from the studio.

  4: Quick Work

  AS she saw the shadow creeping towards her, Vanity opened the door, and it sagged closer. She stepped to one side and pulled the door wildly, while at a screaming pitch of terror; but she could not scream, no sound at all came from her open mouth. She ran onto the landing, tried to pull the door behind her, but caught her nail on it, that was all. She ran to the top of the stairs and nearly stumbled, clutched the handrail, and then began to sob: ‘No, no, no.’ Her right leg gave way under her, and she fell, clung to the handrail, and turned her head to look over her shoulder, fresh terror welling up. She saw a man, head and shoulders hidden by a scarf worn like a cowl, throwing something at her; and then he turned and disappeared.

  The missile struck the wall a few feet away from her and instinctively, she ducked. There was a sharp, hissing sound, and a great heat on her hands, which covered her face.

  Flame was spreading all over the stone staircase – liquid fire, coming towards her. She turned and ran from it, as there came a new sound, a new cause of fear: a man racing up the stairs. There was the fire on her heels and the man below, and she did not know what to do.

  A man she had seen before came into sight at the second floor landing, a big, boyish type, who was coming very fast. He was beckoning her and she did not understand why. Then: ‘Jump!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll catch you. Jump!’

  It was the one way she could save herself; and she obeyed.

  The man clutched her, and she hardly felt the jolt. Then he carried her downstairs and into the street while other men came, some with fire extinguishers; and she knew that she was safe.

  Soon the fire was out, and she was led upstairs over the blackened steps. Sight of them made her shudder. If the liquid fire had reached her, she would have been burned to death. She did not know how to express her gratitude to the man who rescued her. She had seen him at Scotland Yard as she had walked down the unending flight of stone steps with the big superintendent, and he was the man who had followed her in a taxi.

  She fumbled in her bag, and found her keys, including one of the studio. The detective took it, gave her a surprisingly untroubled grin, and said: ‘Just take it easy.’

  He inserted the key, turned and pushed; but the door didn’t budge.

  ‘Bolted,’ he said. ‘I expect he’ll get out the back way. Did you see him?’

  ‘His head and shoulders were covered.’

  ‘Good job you were so nippy,’ the boyish-looking detective said. ‘That’s the best way to keep out of trouble. Any idea why he should try to kill you?’

  ‘I can’t even begin to guess.’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ the other said. ‘Do you know the people in the flat below?’

  ‘No. This is my cousin’s place, I don’t live here.’

  ‘I know,’ the detective declared. ‘Well, let’s hope the neighbours are in and available.’

  An elderly man from the ground floor flat put the telephone at his disposal, and ushered Vanity in. Her clothes were singed, but she was not hurt; yet she needed to sit. She heard the detective talking to someone, presumably at Scotland Yard. She kept picturing that hooded figure, hurling death at her; and then she saw an imagined picture of her sister’s face, in death. She sat very still, and did not want anyone to speak to her. No one did until the detective put the receiver down, then said to somebody else: ‘I have to go, but I’ll be back for Miss Roy soon. Could you possibly make her some strong tea or coffee?’

  ‘I’ve a kettle on,’ a woman answered briskly.

  The couple were very kind when the detective had gone; Vanity was with them for half an hour before there was a ring at the front door bell, and a uniformed policeman stood on the threshold, asking for Miss Roy. The elderly woman who had been so kind argued a little because she did not want her unexpected guest troubled, but the policeman said, as if it clinched the matter beyond all doubt: ‘Superintendent West will soon want to see her upstairs, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Vanity. ‘I’ll go.’

  It had taken Roger twelve minutes to get from the Yard to 17, View Crescent, after getting Anderson’s message. He blessed his luck that he had thought of keeping a watch on the cousin’s flat, and as he sped along the Embankment, gave orders by radio. It was subtly different from the past. Then he’d had to contact a superintendent and word orders as if they were requests; now they could really be orders. That exhilarated him.

  By the time he reached the Crescent, two patrol cars were there, and when he jumped out of his car a uniformed driver came hurrying.

  ‘Back guarded?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. Bird flown, I’m afraid. We got into the flat by the back door, it was open. There’s an iron staircase, a kind of fire escape, that’s all.’

  ‘Pity,’ Roger said. ‘Who’s up there?’

  ‘Anderson and two of our chaps.’

  ‘We’ll have a man from Fingerprints in a few minutes.’ Roger nodded, and hurried to the open front door. He sensed that the patrol men were wat
ching, smiling, talking about him. He didn’t look round again, but went into the gloomy hall, then up the burned staircase which became brighter as he neared the top. There was a smell of burning everywhere. A constable stood on duty by the open door of James Wickham’s flat.

  ‘All quiet?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No trouble, Superintendent.’ The constable hid a smile; Roger didn’t bother to hide his, as he strode inside. A patrol car man was looking about a small room which was furnished in contemporary design trying to be contemporary for tomorrow as well as today. Lamps, shades, chairs, bookcases, were all eccentric in shape and decoration, if utilitarian in purpose. Shadows were on the wall by a wide archway, not a door, which led into a brighter room. Roger stepped through.

  No one but Anderson was here yet. The investigation team hadn’t arrived. In some ways that was a good thing, because it showed Roger the scene in its stark viciousness. This was a fine, large, lofty studio with a clear north light. There were paintings on the walls, on easels, on furniture. Practically every one had been slashed across and across, on some the canvas was ripped as if the only intent had been to disfigure the face painted on it, for all the slashed pictures were faces, most of them futuristic, only one or two conventional. There were fifteen or twenty, not one undamaged – and each was a different version of Margaret Roy.

  Anderson turned round, saw who had arrived, and sprang to attention as if he had trained in the army, not a divisional police force.

  ‘Hallo, Anderson, you found Vanity Roy again, I’m told,’ Roger said, looking away from the paintings. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the downstairs flat, sir, neighbours are looking after her.’

  ‘Shock?’

  ‘Took it very well really, but she could do with a breather.’