by John Creasey
‘Brother, that was like being cremated.’
Goodison stared at the burning building.
The sky was filled with black specks and black smoke. The air was filled with smoke and noise, the roaring of engines, the shouting of commands. The road was blocked: great fire tenders stretched across it. Eight firefighting crews were pouring water upon the buildings next to Rapelli’s; there was no hope at all for Rapelli’s itself.
There was a scream of sound, and the firelight danced on scared eyes of a thousand people who gaped.
The roof began to crumble, fell in, and crashed.
‘Ooooooh!’ the crowd gasped, and sagged away.
There were policemen, moving the people along slowly. There was Telisa Rapelli, next to Goodison; he owed her his life. She had tried to save the others, too – Redman and Sergeant Mayne, good men, alive one minute, dead in that ravenous fire the next.
His arm throbbed and beat, and seemed to snarl at him.
He saw a Precinct man, a lieutenant who had worked with him often, and he called: ‘Jeb, spare a minute.’
The other turned, recognised him, and gaped.
‘You mixed up in that?’ He elbowed his way through the crowd.
‘You been here long?’ Goodison asked.
‘Since it started. There was a call from Headquarters to have the Rapelli warehouse watched. I came along. How was I to know that I would be too late?’
‘There was a guy coming out.’
‘Sure, a little guy,’ Jeb said.
‘Where is he?’
‘In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, but I imagine he’ll be dead when he arrives. He was shot all to pieces.’
‘Yeah,’ Goodison said.
He was going to faint. He must not, but he knew no way of avoiding it. He felt as he imagined Telisa Rapelli would be feeling. He was holding her – or she was holding him upright. Which was it? He was going to faint. He, big, husky New York cop who’d done everything, was going to faint in front of all these people, was going to let the woman go, was so dizzy he didn’t know what he was doing.
‘Jeb,’ he said, ‘take hold—’
‘You all right?’
Telisa Rapelli said: ‘He’s hurt, can’t you see?’
‘Don’t let her go,’ Goodison insisted. ‘Hear me? Don’t let her go.’
‘No one is going to let me go,’ Telisa said, as she might speak to a child. ‘I’m going to stay here. After this I don’t want to go anywhere without protection.’
‘Jeb—’
He needn’t have worried about Jeb, or anything. Jeb had brought more police along, and cleared a path. There was talk of an ambulance, but he would not hear of it. Policemen helped him into a car, then helped Telisa into it, next to him.
‘I just want cleaning up,’ he said. ‘I daren’t face my wife like this. Just cleaning up.’
‘He wants cleaning up,’ Telisa echoed, as if she was mocking him.
‘Take a shot of this,’ Jeb said, and handed Goodison a flask. It was just what he needed, but when he’d had it, his head began to lift off his shoulders, and he wished he had never heard of rye. But that settled as the car made its way first through the crowds, then along empty roads, then to the lower level where there was a line of traffic, going fast. The skyline seemed to jump up and down. The Empire State Building was splitting the sky in two.
‘It was a parallel case,’ he said, and didn’t feel stupid, although he probably sounded like it. ‘Parallel.’
‘What’s that?’ Telisa asked.
‘Forget it.’ He looked at her. ‘You pulled yourself out of hysterics by your own tail,’ he said.
‘I was safe,’ she said, simply, ‘and I wasn’t frightened any more.’ She shuddered. ‘Why didn’t the others listen to me? We could all have been saved.’
‘Miss Rapelli,’ Goodison said, ‘I want to thank you for saving my life.’ This time he felt foolish, but hoped he didn’t sound like it. ‘That’s one thing I won’t forget.’
‘If only the others had listened,’ she said, as if despairing.
‘Forget it. That nightwatchman – who hired him?’
‘The warehouse manager.’
‘Not you?’
‘I’d never seen him before.’
‘Not your father?’
Anger flashed, as it always did when there was any reflection on her father’s name.
‘I’ve told you, the warehouse manager hired him.’
‘He hired Pillitzer.’
She seemed to slump back in her corner.
‘That’s right,’ Goodison insisted, and repeated: ‘It’s a parallel case.’
‘I wish I knew what you were talking about.’
‘I just want cleaning up,’ Goodison said. ‘It wouldn’t do for Rose to see me like this.’
He had not noticed that they had reached 32nd Street, and were hurtling down town, their siren wailing. They crossed over lights when they were red, and two people leapt out of the way. There were lighted signs on now, although it was still daylight. They were on Madison, and passed the Rapelli Gallery. Telisa stared at it, tight-lipped, but did not speak. There were patrolmen on duty on both sides of the road, after this there would be police everywhere, but Pillitzer, who could have talked, was dead.
Why had he taken that risk?
If he had waited and let them go into the picture store, he might have got away. He would have had a chance, but the way he had acted, he hadn’t had a chance. Why do it? Why throw that firebomb? Why destroy the pictures here, as they had been destroyed in London? How had he come by the bomb?
How long had he been here?
Was Telisa Rapelli lying?
She was so touchy about her father that it looked like the great passion of her life.
Goodison was not consciously thinking; the thoughts were taking hold of him, giving a few moments of great clarity. Telisa flared up in anger whenever her father was named. She had divorced Jeremy Clint, and preferred to live at home with her father, but she admitted that she loved Clint. She fought against naming him. Did she know he was the killer? Was her love so strong that she could protect him?
Did she know where he was?
Where was he? In London, England, or New York? A man couldn’t be in two places at once, remember.
Evidence had been burned to ashes in London. Evidence had been burned to ashes here. Michael Ashley had been lucky to escape with his life; in almost identical circumstances, Telisa Rapelli had been, too.
Two lots of evidence gone; two suspects made to look like lucky victims.
Clarity?
He was as clear as the Mississippi in early spring. He couldn’t think. His lucidity was like the false sobriety of a drunk.
They reached Headquarters.
‘Say, you ought to be hospitalised,’ said a sergeant who opened the car door. ‘Not so fast, you’ll fall down.’ There was no pretence in his concern, and Goodison looked as if he couldn’t stand without help.
‘Just clean me up,’ Goodison said, ‘and look after the lady.’ He felt as if he were just a little drunk. ‘Hank Jensen in?’
‘No.’
‘Who is?’
‘Captain Tollifer is.’
Goodison said: ‘Well, I don’t seem to have any choice.’ He reached the elevators, the sergeant, a detective and a woman clerk with them, got out at the Bureau floor, and then went along to Tollifer’s office. Suddenly, there was Tollifer, holding his arm, helping him into a chair.
‘Just tell me what you want to, and I’ll see that you’re cleaned up,’ he said.
Goodison nearly giggled.
‘Cleaned up is right. Captain, I don’t want any misunderstanding. Miss Rapelli saved my life. She tried to save the others. She’ll tell you all about it. She took us to the store in Long Island City, and—’
‘I know what happened.’ Tollifer wasn’t sharp. ‘We are all grateful to Miss Rapelli.’
‘You could show it by conceding the fact th
at my father was an honest man,’ Telisa said, but the sting was out of her voice. She looked tired, Goodison thought. He noticed that her hair was singed at once side, and her coat was burnt, and there was an angry-looking blister on her right hand.
‘Miss Rapelli, the indications are that faked pictures were being shipped to New York from London, and sold by you and your father as genuine. If you and your father didn’t know that, who would?’
‘We didn’t know.’
‘We’ve held Dario, your gallery manager, and Smart, the warehouse manager, for questioning,’ Tollifer said. That was news to Goodison. ‘Have you any reason to believe either of them was involved?’
‘They’ve worked for us for twenty years,’ said Telisa. ‘It isn’t conceivable.’
‘Your father was killed. Pillitzer died. A famous art dealer and a sergeant of this bureau were killed. No one dreamed it up. Miss Rapelli—’
‘Cappen,’ Goodison interrupted. It was a deviation from the formal ‘Captain’ which he would not have permitted himself with Tollifer when he was feeling normal. He spoke loudly and clearly. ‘The remarkable feature of this case is that it runs parallel, here and in London. As if operated to a pattern. First, the murder and the slashing. Then the fire, and the destruction of faked pictures—’
Telisa broke in sharply: ‘There was a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of goods in that store alone, maybe twice as much.’
‘Wow! Which insurance company?’
‘There are three.’
‘Spreading the loss,’ said Goodison with great care. He stood up slowly, holding on to the desk. ‘Cappen, I need cleaning up. I’m deadbeat. This case has me licked. I get a feeling that the solution is so obvious that only a blind man could miss it, and I’m the blind man. You’ve a fresh mind, a clear mind. Can you see what I’ve missed?’
Tollifer made a rare admission.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll see clearer when you’ve had some rest. Right now I’m going to send you home.’ He pressed a bell push for a messenger.
‘So he can’t see it,’ Goodison thought. ‘He doesn’t know the old man was nearly blind. And if Rapelli didn’t know about those fakes, Telisa must have. Only one of them would examine the pictures, the other would rely on a report. So only one had to know about the fakes. It was Telisa. Old Rapelli found out, and died. So we’ve got to let Clint find her, talk to her, see what happens—’
It was all so vivid, until his mind clouded, as with pain.
He felt like fainting, and Telisa Rapelli was looking at him.
Mockingly?
Or with compassion?
Tollifer was questioning her again.
‘If I tell him about the old man will I get anywhere?’ Goodison asked himself, hazily. ‘How about finishing this job myself?’
16: Facts
‘DID you know Pillitzer was in the warehouse?’ Tollifer asked Telisa coldly. Goodison had been taken out, and they were alone in the office.
‘I had no idea,’ she answered.
‘Did you allow your ex-husband to have a key?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know he knew Pillitzer?’
‘Yes. But I don’t believe my—my ex-husband knew anything about the murder. He must have been used as—’ She broke off.
‘A fall guy,’ Tollifer said, icily. ‘You’ve got a mind.’ His cold anger was something to see and hear. ‘You’ve used it to keep killers safe. Clint’s in New York. We want him before he can do any more harm. We want to know the places where he might be, and we want to know right now.’
Telisa moistened her lips.
‘Don’t get the idea that you can fool us any more,’ Tollifer said. ‘We know now that Michael Ashley flew over to New York to warn you about Clint, to tell you that Margaret Roy had found out about the frauds, and was killed to prevent her from talking. Why didn’t you tell us that?’
She was staring out of the window.
‘Why didn’t you?’ Tollifer roared.
‘I didn’t want to believe it,’ she said wearily. It was remarkable that her cheeks could be so pale, yet she still looked beautiful because of her colouring. Her eyes were fever bright, her hair a shimmering black; she looked more like a painting than a human being.
‘Have you seen Clint lately?’ Tollifer demanded.
‘Two months ago.’
‘You’re lying. You’ve seen him this week.’
‘Two months ago,’ Telisa repeated.
‘In New York?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘He always rents a service apartment on West 77th Street,’ Telisa answered, and each word seemed forced out of her. ‘He’s been going there on and off for years. That’s the only place I know.’
‘Miss Rapelli,’ Tollifer said, still bleak and hostile, ‘you are at liberty to return to your apartment. You will be followed. My advice to you is to make sure you do not evade my detectives. If I were you, I would stay in your apartment until we have picked up your ex-husband. You can give evidence against him, you can send him to the electric chair.’
She didn’t speak.
‘And keep your doors locked,’ Tollifer said.
Hank Jensen followed Telisa.
Two cars filled with police arrived at the apartment house on West 77th Street. It was newly painted: if one looked out of a front window one could see the Hudson, and the Hudson had never looked more blue. Inside, the house was spotlessly clean. A middle-aged German woman with a broken accent did not deny that an Englishman answering Clint’s description often stayed here, using the name of Meyer.
‘But this time he comes not,’ she asserted.
‘If you hear from him, if you have a call from him, make sure you call Headquarters,’ a lieutenant ordered.
‘I don’t want to put Mr Meyer in trouble.’
‘You won’t get him in trouble, he couldn’t get in any deeper. You might make a lot of trouble for yourself.’
‘If I hear from him, I will call you,’ the landlady promised.
Goodison said mechanically: ‘Sure, I feel fine, don’t bother me,’ as he stood upright, just outside Headquarters. He went down to the sidewalk and along to his car, walking with extreme caution but refusing help. He had only been burned slightly on the back of the left hand, and there was a soreness at his neck and down his left side: like bad sunburn. His eyes kept watering, and he didn’t feel good. He stood at the side of his car, and looked at the nearly deserted road. A yellow cab came along, empty, and he put up his hand.
‘You know the Rapelli Gallery, on Madison?’
‘Do I know Rockefeller Centre?’
‘Okay,’ Goodison said. He got in. It was three-quarters of an hour since Telisa Rapelli had left, with Jensen after her. In many ways they had been the worst three-quarters of an hour of Goodison’s life. He felt a little better now that he was going to the gallery. It was after seven o’clock, and there was little traffic downtown, not much even in Midtown on Madison. The heat drove people off the streets the moment they could go. Inside the air-conditioned homes, hotels and shops there were still crowds, inside the bars drinks were being consumed to cool the stifled millions. But traffic was light. Goodison leaned back, his eyes half-closed; he had decided not to drive because of the way they kept smarting and watering. Not that it mattered. He ought to be dead. He had Teliso Rapelli to thank that he wasn’t.
There ought to be a way to repay a debt of that kind.
Prove she conspired with her husband, for example – to cash in on her father’s fortune, to cash in on a big insurance—
There were no sightseers outside the gallery, the sensation was over there now. There was not even a newspaperman. There were three cops, looking hot and lethargic, but they straightened up when Goodison appeared. The gallery was closed: so was the door leading to the apartment. Across the road was a small drug store, the kind that was still independent. Goodison went across. Two couples were sitting at the far end of the co
unter, drinking sodas. Jensen was eating what looked like a bacon and egg sandwich. Goodison discovered that he felt hungry.
‘What’ll you have?’ a young counter clerk asked.
‘What’s good enough for my friend is good enough for me,’ Goodison said. ‘Coffee first.’
‘Coffee first, yessir.’
Goodison sat next to Jensen, who hadn’t looked at him, but now stared at his reflection in the mirror. Jensen’s fair hair and complexion were fresh and healthy; Goodison looked as if he had been to Miami Beach, but no one had told him about the dangers of sunburn. From here, Jensen could see the entrance and the front window of Telisa Rapelli’s apartment.
‘I wondered how long you’d be,’ Jensen said.
‘I was longer than I meant to be,’ Goodison responded. ‘She home?’
‘She’s home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Who’d you expect?’
‘Clint,’ Goodison answered. ‘Hank, I’ve been sick, remember? Maybe that’s why I didn’t make sure a microphone was planted in the gallery and the flat, to pick up anything she says on the telephone, or to visitors.’
Jensen grinned.
‘We don’t have to like Captain Tollifer,’ he remarked, ‘but we have to admit he knows his job.’
‘That mike there?’ Goodison felt sharp relief.
‘While you were having fun at the warehouse, the other cops in New York kept on the job,’ Jensen said. ‘They even watched this place. Telisa had a visitor. He let himself in with a key—’
‘Clint!’ cried Goodison.
‘Tell the world,’ Jensen said.
‘But Telisa—’
‘She’s been inside there for ten minutes,’ Jensen told him. ‘I had instructions from the captain – let them talk, and pick Clint up as he leaves. You approve?’
‘My God,’ Goodison said, chokily. ‘I didn’t think that cold fish would take a risk. If Telisa gets hurt—’
‘He knows the apartment’s surrounded, Clint would never hurt her now,’ Jensen said. ‘Who called it a risk?’
‘I call it a risk.’ Goodison stared across Madison, and the coffee arrived. Goodison poured sugar into it, and stirred slowly. ‘I asked myself a question,’ he said. ‘Is it true or isn’t it true that Scotland Yard reported that Ashley had flown over the Atlantic under different names, and if so, why? Is it true the last report from London says Clint has definitely been in England all week, so he didn’t kill Rapelli?’