Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  ‘We’ll give her a bit longer. What have you done?’

  ‘Just had a look round, sir, I thought I’d better not touch anything,’ Anderson said. ‘I didn’t question Miss Roy much, just asked her if she had any idea who’d want to kill her. What a swine!’

  ‘Know what he used?’

  ‘Some kind of Molotov cocktail,’ Anderson answered. I smelt petrol all right. The arson people are on their way.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I did find out the way the man escaped – there’s a garden down there, a bit of an alley, and then several streets,’ Anderson went on. ‘He could have gone almost any way. I suggested to a Divisional patrol car that they put a cordon round to keep as many people as possible away, in case they could pick up a footprint, but I don’t know whether it would be possible.’

  Anderson was making sure that he made amends for ever losing Vanity Roy.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ Roger said, and looked round again. ‘Ugly piece of handiwork here, too.’

  ‘Bit queer, sir,’ Anderson remarked.

  ‘Queer?’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect a normal man to do a thing like this, would you?’

  ‘No.’ But if you were dealing with a psychopath, Roger thought, would you expect him to kill the woman first, and slash the paintings afterwards? Wouldn’t her death be final enough? ‘This chap Wickham’s not bad with his brush, is he?’

  ‘If you like this surrealist stuff, or whatever it’s called, I suppose not, sir.’

  Footsteps announced men from the yard: from Fingerprints, Arson, the Photography Department and a sergeant jack of all trades. They had a clear-cut job to do: to search for fingerprints or any other kind of clue, and find the cause of the fire. It was sheer luck, the kind of luck that came once a year or so, that Roger made the find. He was examining the slashes, to see if all the cuts had been made by the same knife, when he backed away and pushed a chair aside. Under it was a spent match and a little heap of cigarette ash. One match and a fraction of an ounce of cigarette ash could be enough to hang a man, and he picked the match up with a pair of tweezers, then saw that there was printing on the stem; this had come from a book of matches.

  ‘Statler,’ he read, and on the other side saw: ‘Hotels’. This might have very little significance, for it simply showed that someone had been to America, brought back a book of matches, and used one here; it might not have been used today, although it looked fresh. There was no smear of paint on it, and the surface was smooth and shiny; it might carry a fragment of a print, but hardly enough to help Fingerprints. The sergeant from that department was working on the back door which led to the fire escape’s iron platform.

  ‘Send a constable for the girl now, will you?’ Roger asked Anderson. ‘Don’t say a word about the damage.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  It was ten minutes before Roger saw Vanity Roy coming into the lounge. As at the Yard she was staring straight in front of her. This time she looked paler, and there was no doubt that she had had a vicious shock; fear lived in those pearl-grey eyes. Then she saw Roger and he knew that she recognised him.

  He held out his hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Roy, I’m Superintendent West. Mr Naylor had to give up because of that cold of his.’ His smile was just enough to be pleasant. ‘I’m sorry you had this fright.’

  ‘I’m all right now,’ said Vanity.

  ‘Did you get a good look at the man?’

  ‘No, I didn’t really see his face,’ Vanity answered. ‘He had a scarf over it, and his hat was pulled low over his eyes.’

  ‘Did you hear him speak?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No, I only caught a glimpse of him throwing that—that bomb.’ Vanity was very tense. ‘If it hadn’t been for your man I think it would have set me on fire.’

  ‘Glad he was able to help,’ Roger said, and made a mental note to make sure that Anderson was commended. ‘Sure you’ve no idea why anyone should want you dead?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to think, and I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Vanity answered.

  Roger left it at that.

  ‘Mind if we go in here?’ he asked, and led the way into the studio. He got there first, turned to watch her, and saw the way her expression changed, the horror which leapt onto her face and into her eyes. She looked from one ruined picture to the next, in growing dismay.

  ‘Notice anything particular about the way this has been done?’ Roger asked.

  Vanity Roy made herself say: ‘The cheeks are slashed—’ and then she lost what little colour she had, and looked round as if for somewhere to sit. Anderson was hovering, and would have fetched a chair; Roger shook his head. The girl steadied as Roger went on: ‘Do you know of anyone who hated your sister, Miss Roy?’

  ‘No. I—I said I didn’t, only this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who hates your cousin, James Wickham?’

  ‘No.’ The negative was only just audible.

  ‘How often did your sister model for your cousin?’

  ‘Not—not often.’

  ‘She modelled for all these,’ Roger pointed out.

  ‘He used photographs of her when she wouldn’t pose,’ Vanity explained, still in a hoarse voice. ‘She hated sitting still.’

  The fresh shock had hit her very hard, and it was easy to see that to her this was a kind of desecration, much more than vandalism.

  How far was that impression genuine?

  Roger thought most of it was, even allowing for the affect that this girl would have on any man. Anderson was doubtless positive that she was really suffering from the shock; he was using his surprisingly expressive china blue eyes to ask whether he should offer Vanity a drink.

  Roger appeared not to notice.

  ‘Miss Roy, you do realise that your sister’s murderer is at large, and is probably the man who tried to kill you, don’t you? Are you sure you don’t know anyone who hates you, your cousin, or …’

  ‘I’m quite sure!’

  ‘Anyone in love with your sister and who had reason to be jealous of your cousin James Wickham?’

  ‘No,’ repeated Vanity, and behaved as if that were a new thought; it seemed to bring her vitality back. ‘No, of course not,’ she went on sharply. ‘Jimmy was more like an uncle than a cousin.’

  Or lover?

  ‘We’ll leave that for now,’ Roger said, ‘but it could be a matter of life or death. Does Mr Wickham have many American friends, Miss Roy?’

  That startled her.

  ‘Some, yes.’

  ‘Any in London just now?’

  ‘It’s quite possible. He knows a lot of art dealers, and they often come here. In fact he has an exhibition in the New Bond Street gallery at the moment, and he’s there now. I expect that some American dealers visit him most days.’

  ‘Has he been to America lately?’

  ‘Not for over a year.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘She goes over once or twice most years,’ Vanity Roy said, and then tears filled her eyes, as if she suddenly realised she had used the present tense. But she didn’t lose her self-control and seemed to brace herself.

  ‘Has your cousin any bad friends in America, Miss Roy?’

  Roger asked that very clearly as he heard footsteps outside; of a man, hurrying. No policeman would hurry like that in these circumstances; the need for haste was past. Roger moved to the door which led to the lounge, and saw James Wickham come striding in. Wickham was forty-five or so, tall, distinguished rather than handsome, with a haughty-looking nose and a somewhat haughty voice. Now he seemed angry, and he glared at Roger.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then what are these fellows doing in my flat?’

  ‘If you’ll just step in here a moment, I’ll be glad to tell you,’ said Roger. Then he saw Wickham’s eyes narrow in a curious way, saw his hand go to hi
s chest, as if he felt a spasm of pain: and without taking another step, Wickham said: ‘Van’s all right, isn’t she? My cousin, I mean. I was going to meet her—’

  He broke off, and strode into the studio.

  5: Interrogation

  ROGER was within a yard or two of the artist, and missed nothing. First, the expression of relief when he saw the girl. Next, the swift glance round at the slashed canvases. The look of disbelief, followed by horror, and then – after a few seconds while he stood absolutely still, mouth open and eyes rounded, more like a wax dummy than a man – rage stormed into his eyes. His colour ebbed, his eyes glistened, and began to flash. His body seemed to stiffen, and his hands clenched by his side.

  ‘The swine,’ he said harshly. ‘The bloody savages.’ He stepped to the nearest of the portraits, one which was instantly recognisable as Margaret Roy, and looked at it as if he was seeing the murdered woman and not a photograph. Then he raised his clenched right fist and smashed it against the easel, which toppled and crashed.

  Anderson moved forward swiftly, but Roger waved him back.

  Vanity Roy said: ‘Oh, Jimmy.’

  He looked at her, as if he knew she had said something but didn’t know what. He stared down at the fallen canvas, then looked round at all the others. He gave a vivid impression that he had lost his sanity, his eyes were so wild; he beat the air with clenched fists, then pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and stood in a kind of supplication.

  The girl touched his arm, without speaking.

  At last Wickham lowered his hands and turned to her; tears smeared his eyes and he looked now as if he would burst into wild crying. Instead, he patted Vanity’s hand, freed himself, and strode to the window which swept upwards into the roof light. He stared out upon buildings, chimneys, the garden and the panorama of London across the river.

  His shoulders were bowed, as if with a new burden of grief.

  Roger broke his silence.

  ‘Have you any idea who did this, sir?’

  Wickham didn’t answer.

  Roger went to his side.

  ‘The quicker we know what you can tell us, the quicker we can catch the man who nearly killed Miss Roy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A man was waiting here for her, and threw a firebomb at her as she went down the stairs. Who else knew she was coming here?’

  Wickham gasped: ‘Oh, my God. Van, are you all right? Are—’

  ‘Who else knew, Mr Wickham?’

  Wickham said: ‘I told my cousin and several people heard me. Oh, God! This is three years’ work, ruined.’ He began to clench his hands again. ‘And it’s more than that, it—how can I expect you to understand?’

  Vanity was watching him as if with great compassion.

  ‘Have you any idea who would want to do it, sir?’ Roger asked.

  ‘It’s—it’s the end of a dream,’ Wickham went on, and his voice was husky and breaking. ‘I’ve been working up towards this all my life, this was the very best work I’ve ever done, this was nearly genius! And look at it. Look at it! Oh, God, what shall I do?’

  ‘Do you know who did it, sir?’

  ‘Of course I don’t know who did it!’ Suddenly Wickham shouted, almost screamed: ‘How the hell should I know? That’s what you’re paid to find out isn’t it? Then when the hell are you going to get on with your job, instead of standing there and expecting me to do it for you? First Margaret, then Vanity, now—’ he broke off.

  ‘Miss Margaret Roy appears to have been the model for all of these portraits, sir,’ Roger remarked flatly. ‘There is probably a connection between her murder and this vandalism, and I must ask you to give me all the information you can. Do you know who did this?’

  ‘You damned fool, of course I don’t! If I did, I’d break his neck.’ Wickham, glaring, shook off Vanity’s hand when she put it on his arm, as if to restrain him. ‘Asking a lot of bloody fool questions instead of going and finding out who did it.’

  Roger changed his approach and said sharply: ‘If that’s the way you’re going to talk, you’d better come along with me to the Yard at once, and cool off. Hysterics aren’t going to help any of us.’

  Wickham raised his head, as if unable to believe that he had heard aright.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m not threatening you or anyone else, I just want straight answers to straight questions. I don’t mind whether I get them here, or whether we have to go to the Yard. Anderson, send in Sergeant O’Mara.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Anderson went out with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Jimmy, try to calm down, and answer Mr West’s questions,’ Vanity Roy pleaded.

  ‘Oh, Van, what a swine I am,’ Wickham said. ‘As if these daubs matter compared with you. I’m not myself, I—West! You’ve got to find this killer. Understand? You’ve got to find him at once!’

  Six feet of Sergeant O’Mara came in, looking as if he had just flown over from Dublin, with the very look of the Irish on his lined face, in his blue eyes, in the way his lips were pursed. In his large hands were notebook and pencil. He was dressed in green tweed, which had the colour of shamrock about it.

  ‘Sergeant, I want a verbatim report of my questions and Mr Wickham’s answers,’ Roger said briskly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Irishman nearly made that sound like ‘yes, sorr’.

  Wickham swung round on Roger.

  ‘Why don’t you go out and look for the swine, instead of wasting your time here?’

  O’Mara’s pencil began to move swiftly.

  ‘At least ten detectives are making enquiries from neighbours to try to get a description of the man, others are searching the nearby alleys and streets for anyone who saw him running away, the men on duty here are looking for fingerprints and other clues which may be useful,’ Roger answered. ‘Now, please answer my questions. Do you know who slashed these pictures?’

  ‘I’ve told you a dozen times, no!’

  ‘Have you any reason to suspect that any individual would want to damage them, out of spite or for any other reason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know anyone with a motive for killing Miss Roy here – or her sister?’

  ‘No! I’ve already told you—’

  ‘All I’m trying to establish are facts,’ Roger said, coldly. ‘Is this your flat?’

  ‘You know damned well it is.’

  ‘Does anyone else live here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many people have keys?’

  ‘What the devil are you insinuating?’

  ‘Let me put it another way. Miss Vanity Roy had a key. Who else has?’

  ‘The daily woman,’ Wickham muttered.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I think my cousin Michael has.’

  ‘Michael Ashley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Miss Margaret Roy have a key?’

  ‘Supposing she did? She often came here to pose for me, but if you’re suggesting—’

  ‘I’m not making any implications, I’m just trying to establish facts,’ Roger repeated. ‘There are no signs that the door was forced or that the lock was opened with a tool. The back door was obviously unbolted by the man when he got away. The inference is that he came in with a key. How many other people had a key, please?’

  Wickham’s voice was pitched on a lower key.

  ‘No one else.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m positive, but—’ Wickham hesitated, then swung round towards Vanity and smiled at her; he could look very attractive when he smiled, and this was obviously a request for forgiveness. ‘Michael lost one, a few weeks ago, and my—my other cousin was always losing things. Wasn’t she, Van?’

  The girl nodded.

  Wickham turned back to Roger, as if his venom was spent.

  ‘Margaret was very careless about things like that, anyone who wanted to could have taken a key out of her bag, and she wouldn’t have realised it was gone until ne
xt time she wanted to use it.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have taken hers?’

  ‘No, I can’t. In fact there isn’t a thing I can tell you that I haven’t already told Superintendent Naylor. Where is he?’

  ‘On sick leave.’

  ‘Not before time,’ said Wickham. He spread his hands, looked at the portraits and bit his lips, then went on in the new, calm voice: ‘I’m sorry if I blew my top. This was a hell of a shock, and I didn’t exaggerate on the importance to me. But I know it doesn’t help to get mad. You’ll have to blame my artistic temperament.’

  ‘I quite understand, sir. Have you had any visitors to this flat lately?’

  ‘What do you mean by “lately”?’

  ‘The past forty-eight hours.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has Mr Michael Ashley been here?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. If he’d let himself in he would have left a message.’

  ‘Have you had any guests from America recently?’

  ‘Not for several weeks—three months, probably.’

  ‘When did you last go to the United States?’

  ‘January.’

  ‘What hotel did you stay at?’

  ‘The Biltmore.’

  ‘Did you visit the Statler Hotel?’

  ‘No,’ answered Wickham, as if trying hard to follow the line of questioning. ‘I never stay at the Statler. Michael does, and Margaret usually did, she liked to be able to walk round to Macy’s and Saks and the other department stores near there.’

  ‘When was Mr Ashley last in the United States?’

  ‘Last month,’ said Wickham, promptly, and now frowned in earnest. ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘Does Mr Ashley smoke, sir?’

  ‘He’s a chain smoker.’

  ‘Does he use a lighter, or matches?’

  Roger knew that Vanity Roy was now watching him as intently as the man. Were either of them worried? Roger couldn’t be sure; and could be sure of nothing except that Wickham’s attitude had changed so quickly, and that the sharp interrogation and the harping on America had made the girl forget her annoyance.

  ‘He prefers matches,’ Wickham answered at last. ‘He’s always running out of lighter fuel, and doesn’t like the smell of it. He never has.’