by John Creasey
Goodison thought: ‘Sure, she’s a good Democrat like her dad.’ He didn’t say it, but said flatly: ‘I’ve noticed an unusual feature about the Rapellis, in the past few years.’
‘Years?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What?’
‘The old man used to do the travelling. Now Miss Rapelli does.’
‘What’s so unusual for an old man to want to stay home?’
‘He’s not so old. Sixty-three.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Tollifer demanded.
‘I’m wondering if there’s any reason for the change of custom.’
‘Check it,’ Tollifer said, and Goodison went out. He could telephone West at once, or wait for word from Hank Jensen. He decided to wait. The possibility that there were two killers gave this a touch of the macabre. One killer being hunted in London, one in New York at the same time. He went into the office adjoining his and said to the desk sergeant: ‘Jo, I’m going to Rapelli’s gallery, the daughter will be there. If Hank calls from Idlewild, be sure I get the message.’
‘Okay.’
Goodison hurried, past people, doors and blank walls, and out into the street. He had forgotten how hot it was, and the sun seemed to single him out for frying. ‘Jeeze,’ he said aloud. ‘Rose will spend all day in the shower.’ It took him four minutes to find his car and two minutes to edge her away from a Cadillac behind him and a Lincoln in front. By that time he was wringing wet with sweat. ‘Why don’t they call them trucks and be done with it?’ he grumbled, and headed his Mercury towards the Midtown area. There wasn’t so much traffic on this road; he had a distinct impression that people were keeping out of New York if they could. He drove fast between lights, and sat still, smoking and tense, at all the reds. He reached Madison at 71st Street, past Rapelli’s, and a miracle came to pass, for he had room to park. He jumped out of the car, and looked fresher than any of the three patrolmen and the fifty gawpers who were near the shop. Inside he saw two Precinct detectives talking to Telisa Rapelli.
There was beauty and beauty. Hers was not classic, her features were not even regular, but her colouring was superb. She had a coppery kind of red hair a man didn’t really believe in; masses of it in thick curls. Her skin had the flawless creaminess of redheads, and she used just enough make-up to emphasise the honey colour of her eyes.
She was tall for a woman, but not big; and exactly the right shape.
The patrolman recognised Goodison and let him pass, and he opened the shop door. Its bell had a soft note, melodious and pleasing. The door closed behind him, and Telisa Rapelli was saying: ‘Of course I know Michael Ashley, he is an old friend of mine, and an old friend of my father’s. What nonsense is this?’ She turned to look at the newcomer, but Lieutenant Ivan Goodison meant nothing to her. ‘It is absurd to think Michael would do this hideous thing.’
Her voice was rich, although she sounded edgy. She looked as if she hadn’t slept on the flight, but her hair wasn’t disarranged. She wore a dark green linen dress that hadn’t come from a budget floor, and it was easy to see how she chose colours to throw up her own vivid natural colouring.
Lieutenant Mason, the Precinct man in charge, said laconically: ‘Hi, Lootenant. This is Miss Rapelli.’ She turned easily, gracefully. ‘This is Lootenant Goodison, from Headquarters,’ Mason went on. ‘We’re handling this together.’
Telisa was in some ways like her father, but her nose was smaller, her mouth a nicer shape and softer. She certainly hadn’t slept, for her eyes had a glassy look. She had left San Francisco last night, and while she had been in the air her father had been murdered – yet she hadn’t slept. Was she just a bad sleeper when flying, or had there been some other reason for her sleeplessness? Had she been frightened of what might happen, and had that fear brought her home?
Two men were coming from the back of the shop, Dario the manager of the gallery, and a salesman. It was easy to anticipate that they were going to protest: to say that Miss Rapelli must have some rest.
‘Do you know why there are all these questions about Michael Ashley?’ she demanded. Her husky voice sounded as if it might break at any moment.
‘Yes, ma’am, I do,’ Goodison said, and waved the manager and the other man away. ‘Mr Ashley is wanted for questioning about the murder of Miss Margaret Roy, in London, England, and we have reason to believe that he flew from London and arrived here late last night. Do you know where he is?’
Telisa began to reply, stopped, and then closed her eyes. Was she going to faint? The manager took her arm, and defied Goodison, but he didn’t speak. He was a Mussolini of a man, short, thickset, with very heavy jaw and jowl.
‘No,’ the woman answered at last. ‘No, I heard of—of Margaret’s murder, and flew back to talk to my father about it. I was ready to fly on to London. It wasn’t Michael,’ she added, in a voice which seemed to make it clear that she was desperately afraid that the killer might have been Michael Ashley. ‘It couldn’t have been.’
‘I’m going to take Miss Rapelli to the back of the shop,’ Dario said. ‘She needs rest to help her before she is questioned any more.’
Goodison flashed a smile. ‘Sure, okay, we don’t want to make anyone ill.’ He winked at the Precinct man, and waited until Telisa Rapelli had been led away, then looked round the gallery. Dario and possibly the woman chalked that up as a victory; they would learn.
Goodison had been to the gallery twice already, and it was familiar enough. There were art dealers and antique shops of two kinds: the shop with a conglomeration of every conceivable type and kind, with rococo pieces standing next to real gems, one bright and freshly cleaned picture next to another with the dirt of ages on it; and there was the exclusive salon, with a few choice pieces shown to the best possible advantage, the stock kept spick and span, or in storerooms out of sight. Rapelli’s was one of the salons. The carpet was thick, the walls were decorated as if they belonged to a room in some great private home. There were gilt dados, oak panels in some places, papered panels in others. The lighting was from chandeliers, or else was concealed. Pictures were spaced so that they could be given full attention. Small pieces of furniture, most of them centuries old and mostly from Europe, although some were oriental, stood as they might in a private house.
At the back, Goodison knew, were large storerooms, kept as well as the Bureau of Criminal Information at Headquarters. Other Rapelli storerooms were in different parts of New York, the biggest being just over Queensborough Bridge, in Long Island City. This was big business, and Rapelli’s customers were spread from coast to coast and continent to continent.
Who would inherit?
The question had already hit Goodison hard. Well, who would? His daughter?
There were plenty more questions to ask Telisa Rapelli and her lawyers, who weren’t around yet. That didn’t surprise him. Rapelli’s man was a family friend who knew everything about the legal side of contracts, and buying, and selling, but nothing about criminal cases.
The man would know the next of kin; or the next in line for a business worth millions of dollars.
Millions?
‘Sure,’ Goodison said, answering himself. He turned to Mason. ‘How about Rapelli’s lawyer?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘You got anything else?’
‘Not a thing,’ Mason said. He always gave the impression of being sore or sour, and he would resent a Headquarters man being here so soon; but he’d had his orders. He was a biggish man, running to fat, who was usually too hot, even in the winter. But it was cool inside here, and even he wasn’t too hot now. ‘I’ve had five men going over the apartment, and they haven’t found a thing. The guy used a key.’
‘This Michael Ashley have a key?’
‘Yeah. Miss Rapelli admits that.’
‘Who else?’
‘She says, no one but the cook, her father and herself.’
‘Not the manager, Dario?’
‘No one at all, she says,’ Mason re
peated, and sniffed. ‘Lootenant, I think she was so frightened she started to get back before her father was murdered. If you ask me, the news that the English dame had been killed started her off. That’s the angle I’d use. I wouldn’t give her time to recover her breath. Right now, she’ll talk. Give her an hour, and maybe she won’t.’
‘You’d take her to the station?’
‘Sure.’
‘Later, maybe,’ Goodison said, and looked straight into the Precinct man’s eyes. ‘You want to know something?’
‘What?’
‘You’re holding out on me.’
‘Don’t dream things up.’
‘Let’s have it,’ Goodison said, flatly. ‘We’ve got to work fast. We’re in competition this time, and I don’t mean the Precinct versus Headquarters. You wouldn’t want Scotland Yard to step ahead of us, would you?’
Mason said, grudgingly: ‘I just had an idea. It’s only an idea, and maybe it’s crazy. You won’t hold me to it.’
‘Ideas are valuable.’
‘Those cuts on the face,’ said Mason, and he turned to a table, the dark shiny beauty of which held some photographs of the murdered woman. ‘You see them? Those incisions.’ He liked the word, and repeated it: ‘I’ve seen incisions like that before some place, two—three times I guess. The same kind of incisions on flesh. I seem to see them on faces, too.’
‘Yeah,’ Goodison said, and felt a sudden pounding of excitement. ‘I know what you mean. They make a kind of pattern.’
‘Sure. You’ve seen slashed faces by the hundred, but these …’
‘They’re teasing you,’ Goodison said. ‘Now they’re teasing me. You want to do something?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Call Jack Sherpa. Tell him what you’ve told me. Ask him to search the files.’
‘This a message from you?’
‘It’s a message from you, you want to surprise me.’
A rare thing happened: Mason smiled.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘There’s another thing,’ Goodison said. ‘You know any reason why old Rapelli stopped travelling, and his daughter took over?’
‘I could guess,’ Mason answered.
‘Guess.’
‘There’s a rumour that Rapelli had been losing his sight. He wouldn’t want to admit it, no one would trust his judgement of pictures if they knew, but one of his assistants opened his mouth to one of my boys.’
‘So the daughter covered for him,’ Goodison hazarded. ‘We’ve got to add that up right, talk good to Sherpa.’
There was a disturbance at the door, and then a man who might have been Rapelli’s father came in, a tall, silver haired man, also in a black coat and striped trousers, but making a concession to the modern age with a soft collar. Dario came hurrying forward, too, bulldoggish, as if he knew that he had to treat this man with exceptional deference. This was Sylvester, the lawyer who had started out, years ago, on Riverside Drive, and then moved to Park Avenue in the wake of the millionaires. He was a soft-voiced Bostonian, and could freeze you with a look; he could also be the gentleman of gentlemen.
He came forward, and Dario hovered like a pugnacious acolyte.
Dario talked …
This was terrible, terrible. Miss Rapelli was suffering severely from shock, she must see a doctor, a sedative, a shot, she was in no state to be questioned further. Dario did not speak direct to Goodison but seemed to be talking at him, his big jaw making him look like a barking bulldog. ‘You’re dealing with millionaires, with big shots,’ he seemed to be warning. ‘Remember that.’ Outside was the bright sunlight, and inside the soft light and Sylvester, who was going to be regal, imperious, and the puller of political strings.
Goodison blocked his way.
‘Mr Sylvester,’ he said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Goodison, from Headquarters, and I’ve instructions to cause Miss Rapelli the least possible distress.’ That was always a winner. ‘I wonder if you would help me with some information. It might enable me to delay questioning Miss Rapelli until she’s had good time to rest.’
Mason heard the tail end of this, and grinned again as he went out, to his car and the radio. Sylvester glowed, graciously.
‘That’s very considerate of you, Lootenant. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.’
‘Thank you, sir. You know as well as I do that the first thing to find is motive, and the quicker we find the motive the quicker we shall find the killer.’ Sylvester nodded ponderous agreement to these platitudes. ‘So I’m looking for motives. Who was Mr Rapelli’s heir?’
‘His daughter, naturally.’
‘That right?’
‘It is quite right.’
‘Who is her heir?’
‘I am unaware of any next of kin in this country,’ Sylvester said. ‘There is an obscure cousin, living in Southern Italy.’
Goodison flashed a question and a glance at Telisa. But for the dazed, tired look in her eyes, she was normal; she looked as if nature had made her up by Technicolor.
‘Have you made a will, Miss Rapelli?’
‘No,’ she answered at once.
‘No will, and you’re worth …’
‘Miss Rapelli will soon repair that omission,’ Sylvester became cold.
‘No marriage?’
Telisa didn’t reply.
‘Miss Rapelli, if you have a husband, he is your next of kin.’
‘I was married,’ she admitted, heavily.
‘And unhappily the marriage ended in divorce,’ interpolated Sylvester. ‘That is a three-year-old secret, and the husband has no claim at all.’
‘This marriage – was it secret also?’
‘It was.’
‘To whom?’
‘Telisa,’ said Sylvester, ‘you do not need to answer.’
Goodison guessed.
‘Mrs Michael Ashley?’
‘No!’ Telisa answered, and her voice seemed to reflect deep hurt.
‘Did your father know about this marriage?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sylvester, and he was greatly distressed when they were compelled to acknowledge that it did not work out satisfactorily.’
‘Come on, let’s have it. Who was the guy? I can find out, why waste my time?’
Sylvester insisted: ‘There is no reason why he should be involved and we are under no obligation to answer.’
‘Did Mr Rapelli have any other unsuspected in-laws?’ Goodison demanded, roughly.
Sylvester froze. ‘Miss Telisa was his only daughter. I must insist that she rests, and sees a doctor at once.’ He pushed past, as nearly as he would demean himself, and led the girl to a room at the back of the shop.
Goodison watched that unbelievable coppery hair, and hoped that he was playing his cards right. He went out, going to the side door, which led to the apartment. Two cops stood outside, one of them resting his right hand on his belt, close to his gun. He looked as if he would melt. There were few people about and three cars passed in a row, travelling slowly. Even a bus seemed to crawl, growling. Goodison went briskly up the stairs, and was greeted by another patrolman, then by Precinct detectives who were finishing the search of the apartment. The body had been removed, but nothing else had been touched.
‘Anything?’ Goodison asked.
‘No, sir,’ a man replied.
‘There’s one thing,’ another put in.
‘That so?’
‘Maybe it doesn’t signify,’ the speaker said, ‘but there was a print on a glass in the pantry, it had been put away without being washed properly, Lootenant. You want to see?’
‘Sure,’ said Goodison, and took the offered magnifying glass, went into the kitchen and squinted at the print on a glass standing by itself on stainless steel. Black powder had been used, and showed the print up vividly.
It was one of the good and the bad moments.
That was identical with the print he had examined at Headquarters: Michael Ashley’s print. He studied it, and then straightened up, looking into the
anxious face of the man who had found it, and said: ‘If that was uranium it couldn’t be more precious. Have it photographed right where it is. Then wrap it up and put it in a box, and protect it with your life.’
‘Yes, sir!’
So Ashley was here in New York, Goodison thought, he must have reached Idlewild on the Stratocruiser. That was the worst part of the discovery. There was a chance that it was an old print, but prints usually faded in a week or two, and this one was very clear, and probably recent. Goodison did not marvel that it should be found and knew that he should be jubilant, yet felt glum. But that did not slow him down. He looked round the apartment, where everything the Precinct Homicide Squad had thought of interest was laid out on tables and chairs, for quick examination. Nothing seemed particularly significant. He was about to leave when a telephone rang, and he was called to it.
‘Who wants me?’
‘Sergeant Jensen.’
Goodison took the receiver eagerly. ‘Hallo, Hank.’
‘I’ve got news for you,’ Jensen said, in a voice which was like news itself. ‘Ashley was on that plane last night, no kidding. The stewardess, the second pilot, the steward and two passengers recognised his photographs. So did the customs men. He was on board as a Mr Marshall Abbott. His ticket, his passport, everything he had with him was in that name. He was on the passenger list as Abbott and as Ashley. He made sure we concentrated on that empty seat. The guy’s smart.’
But the smart guy had left a fingerprint.
‘Sure, Hank,’ Goodison said. ‘So we’ve got Ashley on our hands.’ He didn’t say anything about the fingerprint proof. ‘Now I’ve got news for you. Telisa Rapelli was married, but divorced. She’s Rapelli’s only heir.’
‘Wow!’
‘That’s my reaction also,’ Goodison said dryly. ‘See you.’ He rang off, scratched his head, and then went down the stairs. Facts were his stock in trade, not hunches; the ugly facts were that Michael Ashley alias Marshall Abbott was in New York, so there was nothing really decisive about the use of different weapons, and the difference in the incisions. He went down, stepped into the street, and saw Mason striding from his car, which was double parked.