Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  ‘It’s true.’

  Goodison drank coffee and stared across Madison, as if he couldn’t wait for Clint to appear. Two cops were near the door, and Hank was right about the risk. But …

  Goodison made himself say: ‘Did Ashley kill old Rapelli? Or was Pillitzer paid to do that?’

  ‘My money is on Pillitzer, the way he behaved means he knew he would be held on a murder rap.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Even if Ashley doesn’t have to be a killer, he can still be mixed up in the faked pictures racket,’ Jensen added.

  Goodison sipped his coffee again: it was hot, and scalded lips which were already sore. He grimaced, dabbed them carefully, and couldn’t keep his gaze off the window. Suddenly he saw one of the cops jerk his head up, saw another snatch out his gun.

  He was off his stool and at the door before Jensen moved.

  He yanked the door open.

  He heard the crunching sound of breaking glass; the snap of a small bore automatic, both from the first floor window of the Rapelli apartment, above the gallery. He raced across the road, Jensen hard behind him. He heard another shot, and more glass break. The nearest cop was battering at the door of the apartment.

  The woman inside screamed.

  Cars stopped, people on the sidewalk spun round, a couple dodged into a doorway. Goodison heard the cop battering at the door and knew that he could not smash it down in time: no one could. There was a sound of struggling. Goodison heard a crash. He saw a hold that he could take at the window, and hitched himself up and then hauled himself higher. The strain at his shoulders was almost unbearable.

  He heard Jensen call: ‘Okay, stand on me.’ He squinted down and saw Jensen’s broad shoulders immediately beneath him, and stood on them; that took him almost head high to the window. He could hear struggling inside the room, then a crash as if a chair or a table had fallen.

  He heard another shot.

  He clutched at stonework, and hauled himself up, and saw into the room.

  Telisa Rapelli was at the door, clutching desperately at the handle, looking over her shoulder as if she feared that death would catch her before the door opened. She needn’t worry. Goodison knew she needn’t, because he had seen death often enough. A man, a big, handsome man, was sliding down the wall alongside the door. His head lolled forward, but Goodison could see the way his eyes glazed. He could also see the blood pumping out of the wound in the neck. The woman was sobbing. Her hair looked as if she had been caught in a hurricane, the neck of her dress was torn, and her hands were at her throat.

  A crash from downstairs told him that the street door was down at last. He didn’t need to try to climb in, just called to Telisa: ‘You can relax.’

  She said gaspingly: ‘He was waiting here for me. He wanted money. When I wouldn’t give it to him he started to strangle me.’ She could not go on, her breathing was so bad, and now he could see red marks at her throat, and a scratch which bled slightly. At last she managed to finish: ‘I—I shot him. I had to shoot him. I had to shoot.’

  ‘You shot him good,’ Goodison said, and then the door behind Telisa opened, and a cop ran in, with Jensen just behind. That was when Goodison saw that the telephone had been smashed, and the microphones broken into many pieces.

  There was no record of what had been said. Was there any way of proving who had made sure of that?

  Part V

  LONDON AND NEW YORK – FINAL PHASE

  17: Two Aspects

  ‘MR WEST?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Cable in from New York, sir, I’ve just decoded it.’

  ‘Read it, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was a pause, while Roger picked up a pencil and Turnbull, who now had the desk where Naylor’s CI had been and was reading a newspaper report of the murder of Gossen and the hunt for Jeremy Clint, looked up, his eyes were sharp and burnished looking.

  ‘New York?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If they’ve got Clint, are we going to ask for extradition?’

  ‘Not if I can help it … Yes, I’m ready.’ Roger wrote swiftly and he repeated the cable as it was read out to him.

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS NEW YORK CITY TO CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT NEW SCOTLAND YARD LONDON JEREMY CLINT SHOT TODAY IN STRUGGLE WITH TELISA RAPELLI STOP PRELIMINARY INDICATIONS CONFIRM FAKED PICTURES SOLD BY RAPELLIS CHECKING STOP ANYONE ELSE YOU’D LIKE US TO PICK UP MESSAGE ENDS

  Turnbull’s grin had an edge to it. ‘They don’t even get him alive.’

  ‘They got him.’

  ‘We told them all about him.’

  ‘I don’t care whether they got him or we did,’ Roger said. ‘All I want to know is whether anyone else was in this job with him – whether anyone else is still laughing at us.’

  ‘Telisa?’

  ‘Supposing we hadn’t got onto Clint, what would the situation be?’ Roger countered.

  ‘We’d be looking for more evidence against Michael Ashley.’

  ‘That’s right. And we would be wondering even more whether Telisa Rapelli was working with Ashley – whether she connived at her father’s murder because Rapelli found out that she was knowingly selling fakes. There was the fire in New York, and she was lucky to get out alive. Her husband turned up at her apartment and was shot and killed in a struggle. Why? Because he was going to kill her, or because he could implicate her? Is inheritance the real motive, and the fakes a blind?’

  Turnbull stared at him, almost ludicrously.

  ‘Are you onto that, too?’

  ‘Why the devil don’t you stop keeping ideas to yourself – two heads are still better than one,’ Roger said, but before Turnbull could comment, a telephone bell rang. Roger lifted the receiver.

  ‘West here.’

  ‘There’s another cable from New York, sir, signed by Mr Goodison. It’s been decoded.’

  ‘Read it out to me, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Quote please check all Telisa Rapelli’s London associates and possible relations for inheritance motive urgent Goodison, end quote, sir.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Roger grunted. He rang off, and repeated the gist of the message to Turnbull.

  Turnbull said almost unbelievingly: ‘Do you and Goodison have an affinity? That’s practically what you’re saying.’

  ‘It’s simply a study of the same evidence,’ Roger reasoned. ‘Rapelli was only sixty-odd, and might have lived twenty years. He was worth a million dollars, and the insurance on the stock burnt in New York was another quarter of a million. That’s some inheritance, and it’s Telisa Rapelli’s.’

  ‘Shared by whom?’ Turnbull asked softly.

  ‘We have to find out, if it’s someone on our side. There’s a cousin who lived—’

  ‘The only relation we can trace this side died a year ago,’ Turnbull replied. ‘That’s in one of my reports. Ashley was once engaged to Telisa—’

  ‘Hardy gone?’ Roger interrupted.

  ‘Saw him leave myself.’

  ‘Good.’ Roger lifted the telephone and said: ‘I want a call to Lieutenant Goodison, New York Police. Yes, Goodison in person … If he’s not at his office, try him at his home, you have the number … I don’t care how long the delay is, I’ll wait.’

  He rang off.

  ‘You’re still ahead of me,’ Turnbull conceded.

  ‘I’m probably ahead of myself,’ Roger answered. ‘We began with Margaret’s murder and the attack on Vanity. We went on to Michael Ashley and James Wickham rushing their cousin Vanity out of the way. We know she was frightened. We know she’s given us some help, and offered more. We know she suspects Wickham – that stood out. We know we’re dealing with ruthless killers, and that she might be next in line.’

  Turnbull said: ‘I’d hate to see her throat cut or her face slashed. How do you plan to save her?’

  ‘We’ve got to get results in a hurry,’ Roger said, ‘and I can see only one way. Use Vanity Roy to find out which of her cousins is involved.’r />
  ‘That’s the answer,’ Turnbull agreed, almost eagerly. ‘But why talk to Goodison about that? It’s a hell of a risk. But it’s our risk.’

  ‘If Goodison’s the man I think he is, he’ll take a chance,’ Roger said confidently. ‘He’ll have a cable sent in the code that the Old World Gallery uses – we’ve got their cypher book. The cable is going to tell both cousins that Vanity knows all the truth, and is going to talk. If they’re in it together, they’ll get together and plot how to deal with Vanity. If only one of the men goes to her, then he’s going to kill or else to confer.’

  Turnbull said: ‘Suppose he’s going to kill, what happens if he succeeds?’

  ‘We don’t let him,’ Roger said.

  ‘We hope,’ said Turnbull, tersely; but his eyes were glittering with excitement.

  Out of the window of his front room, Goodison could just see the sun sparkling on the cars streaming along the parkway, and shimmering on the Hudson. He hardly noticed that as he spoke into the telephone.

  ‘Sure, Handsome, sure, I’ll fix it somehow. No, I don’t but I’ll fix it … Do you know that saying about two minds thinking alike? … What’s that? …’ He guffawed. ‘Sure, that’s right, all great minds thinking alike! Well, maybe this fact will interest you. Michael Ashley and Telisa Rapelli used to walk out together … Rapelli hoped they’d get married. Sure, it’s a fact, we’ve got it from three witnesses. And there’s one other thing. If you had to describe Ashley and Wickham, how would you begin?’

  After a pause, West answered: ‘They’d answer the same description, apart from colour of eyes and size – Wickham’s bigger. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘We’ve heard from the apartment house where Clint stayed when in New York that he sometimes had an English visitor,’ Goodison reported, ‘and it could have been Ashley or Wickham. How about that?’ He grinned. ‘I’ll say it’s your baby now,’ he said, and rang off.

  He wiped his forehead as Rose came hurrying in.

  ‘What is this you’re going to fix?’ she demanded. ‘You’re not going to leave this apartment for another twenty-four hours even if that man West asks you to fly to London.’

  ‘He won’t and I won’t. All I have to fix are some messages to London, honey. I don’t know whether to confide in Tollifer or not.’ Goodison looked up at his Rose, and his eyes kindled at sight of her statuesque beauty. ‘Why do guys with wives like you have to work? I can imagine spending all the time there is lying around with you.’

  ‘You watch what you’re saying. Ivan, I don’t often interfere with your business, but—’

  ‘Hon, you certainly don’t.’

  ‘I’m interfering now.’

  ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘Don’t do anything on this case without consulting Captain Tollifer. If you made a mistake, you might be demoted. I don’t want to have to live the second half of my life on a sergeant’s pay.’

  Goodison took her hands. ‘I guess you’re right, but if Tollifer says no, I’m going to be in real trouble,’ he said. ‘You go and make supper while I talk to him.’

  ‘I’m going to stand here and listen.’

  Goodison sighed.

  Tollifer was still at the office. Goodison could not even guess his reaction from anything he said at first, and before the conversation was a minute old, he was feeling hot and cold. Rose was watching, hands on her fine hips, as if the Amazon in her was ready to attack.

  Then Tollifer said: ‘You’d better have a cable expert phrase those cables, if you have to use the private code. Don’t waste any time.’

  He rang off.

  ‘You know,’ Goodison said, marvelling, ‘there are times when I think that guy’s real human, and you’re a wife who can be right.’ He stood up.

  ‘Where are you going—’

  ‘Is it okay by you if I just look out of the window in the general direction of Madison?’ asked Goodison. ‘I’m wondering what’s going on in our Telisa’s mind, and whether she thinks she’s getting away with anything.’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ said Rose, ‘that you might be completely wrong?’

  ‘Everything occurs to me.’

  ‘And everything happens to you,’ Rose said, ‘but at least it can’t happen to you in London. If there’s trouble in London, your friend West will get it.’

  ‘Take it from me he knows how bad it might be,’ Goodison said, and the smile died out of his eyes.

  17: The Killer

  AT half-past eight next morning, in Roger West’s small house in Bell Street, Chelsea, the telephone bell rang. Martin, called Scoopy, his elder boy, was in the back garden mending his bicycle pump. Richard, the younger, was upstairs snatching five minutes practice at his flute. Roger was in the bathroom, half-shaved. Janet, his wife, was cooking breakfast, and bacon had just gone sizzling into the pan.

  ‘Damn the thing,’ she said, and heard the plaintive note of the flute, saw Scoopy pretending not to have heard, pushed the pan off the gas, and hurried across to the telephone extension on the other side of the kitchen. ‘Mrs West speaking.’

  ‘Handsome in, Mrs West?’ asked Turnbull.

  ‘He’s been up for an hour,’ Janet said tartly: in fact Roger had been up for fifteen minutes. ‘Can’t you let him have his breakfast in peace?’

  ‘Who is it?’ That was Roger, calling down.

  ‘No, ma’am, I just ca-an’t,’ Turnbull declared, in well simulated Texan.

  ‘I’ll call him,’ Janet said, and raised her voice: ‘It’s Turnbull!’ She put the receiver down so that it clattered, and hurried back to the gas stove. Roger came in, lather drying on one side of his face, spoke for a few minutes, and rang off.

  ‘Smells good,’ he said. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘You’ll be ten.’

  ‘Bit tart, aren’t you? What’ve I done?’

  ‘I can’t stand Turnbull, these days,’ Janet said. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Those cables are in from New York,’ Roger told her. ‘Turnbull personally checked, after arranging for Wickham, Ashley and Vanity Roy to be double-watched. I imagine he was up half the night.’

  ‘That’s a habit he caught from you.’

  Roger grinned and blew her a kiss.

  Martin, called Scoopy, came in, his hands black with mud and oil.

  ‘Scoopy, your hands!’

  ‘Soon get that off,’ Scoopy said, and made a mock attack on Janet’s apron, making her dodge away. ‘Breakfast nearly ready?’

  ‘It’ll be ready before you are.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be quick, and someone’s got to stop old Fish from making that noise.’ The lad swung towards the door.

  ‘Scoopy!’

  He stopped. ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘Wash those hands at the kitchen sink, not in the bathroom.’

  ‘Okay, Mum,’ said Scoopy cheerfully, and danced a jig as he passed her, sniffing with his head high in the air. Janet found herself laughing. Water splashed and the white porcelain of the sink became black and sticky. ‘Can I use some of that stuff that gets grease off?’ Scoopy asked, and opened the door under the sink.

  Richard stopped playing and came sauntering in, then sneezed twice in succession.

  ‘Go into the garden for five minutes,’ Janet said, ‘it may help to clear your nose. Isn’t your catarrh ever going to get any better?’

  ‘Speck so, one day,’ Richard said, philosophically, and sneezed again. ‘Sorry.’ He strolled out. Scoopy washed vigorously, eyeing his mother from time to time, and he didn’t speak again until he had dried himself on a brightly coloured kitchen towel.

  ‘I say, Mum …’

  ‘Put the chairs round, and make sure everything’s on the table, Scoop.’

  ‘Okay. Mum, are you worried about dad?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are,’ insisted Scoopy. ‘Wasn’t that chap Clint who was killed in New York the right one?’

  ‘You’d better ask your father.’

&nbs
p; ‘Not necessarily the only right one,’ Roger said, arriving quietly. He winked at Scoopy, winked again at Richard, who came hurrying in, eager to hear everything that was going on. ‘With luck, we’ll see the end of the case today.’

  ‘If you’re not careful, we’ll also see the end of you,’ Janet said.

  Richard studied her with his eyes huge and rounded, Scoopy took his breakfast from the stove and sat down, but didn’t eat immediately. Roger put his arm round Janet’s shoulder, and said quietly: ‘You worry too much. It’s one thing to kill helpless victims like Margaret Roy, it’s another altogether to try rough stuff with a policeman.’

  ‘They killed a policeman in New York, didn’t they? Yet New York police have guns, and you don’t even carry a stick.’

  There was a long pause. Then Richard gulped, beamed, and turned bold eyes onto his father.

  ‘Dad,’ he said with an air of great unconcern, ‘don’t they call New York policemen cops?’

  Even Janet laughed.

  But she wasn’t laughing or smiling when Roger drove off for the Yard. At least the boys were already on their way to school, and could not see her expression. They would not know how frightened she was; and nor would Roger …

  Roger felt keyed up, but would have felt far worse had he known that Turnbull was talking to Vanity Roy while he, Roger, was driving to the Yard.

  Vanity was looking strained and anxious, and seemed almost glad to see Turnbull. He stood towering over her, as handsome as he was massive, and obviously very intent. He did not waste a moment in preliminaries, but demanded: ‘Still ready to help us?’

  ‘I’ll do anything, as I promised Mr West,’ Vanity answered.

  ‘He told me, so here’s what to do. One or both of your cousins will get in touch with you this morning. They’ll want to meet you, and you’re to agree to go to Wickham’s studio for the meeting. That clear?’