by John Creasey
‘Perfectly.’ Vanity ignored his brusqueness.
‘You’re to say that before she died Margaret told you something which you’ve kept to yourself; that she knew that either Michael Ashley or James Wickham was plotting with Clint to sell fakes to the Rapelli Gallery. She did know which one. Got that?’
Vanity said quietly: ‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re to say that you know who it is. If Michael Ashley comes – it’s Ashley. Accuse him. If it’s Wickham – accuse him.’
Vanity began: ‘But—’
‘You needn’t worry, we’ll have the place thick with our men,’ Turnbull promised her. ‘Still quite clear?’
‘I don’t see how it will help,’ Vanity said.
‘You soon will,’ said Turnbull, brusquely. ‘First, say you know it’s him: then say you won’t tell us, all you want is a share in the business. You’ve just got to make him believe that – and make him talk. There’ll be men within earshot, and a tape recorder laid on. You just have to make him talk, that’s all.’
‘I’ll try,’ Vanity promised, ‘but—’
‘And don’t say a word about this to anyone,’ Turnbull warned. ‘West will know you’re helping, but he won’t refer to the subject. Just do what I say.’
‘Supposing whoever comes won’t talk? Supposing neither of them is guilty?’
‘Then neither will come,’ Turnbull said. ‘But one will, and you’re as sure of it as I am.’
She didn’t answer.
That was as good as saying ‘yes’.
It was half-past ten.
Roger was in an ordinary-looking private car, round the corner from the mews where Vanity Roy lived. He had a radio telephone attached, but it was underneath the seat, and all he held in his hand was a miniature microphone which served as the speaker. Along the graceful Mayfair street, cars streamed and people hurried. In half a dozen of the cars, Yard men waited. At the garage in the mews there were two men from the Yard, one as a mechanic, one as a chauffeur, washing down a Rolls Royce. On the roof of a house overlooking the mews two more men were stationed. It was warm but overcast, and there seemed a little spittle of rain in the air.
The radio crackled.
‘You there, Mr West?’ That was Turnbull, being very proper.
‘Speaking.’
‘Nothing to report,’ Turnbull announced. ‘No telephone messages received at any of the three homes. Wickham and Ashley have not conferred, haven’t called Vanity and haven’t left their flats.’
‘Someone will.’
‘Anything your end?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Think our man smelt a rat?’ Turnbull asked. ‘Half a mo’—hold on!’
The pause which followed seemed endless. Then Turnbull spoke again.
‘Wickham’s just left the studio in a taxi.’
‘Taxi?’ barked Roger.
‘Black, Beardmore, 1956, looks very new,’ Turnbull said, excitement fierce in his voice. ‘Hold on, there’s another flash in … You still there? … Ashley has just called Vanity Roy, they’re talking now, we couldn’t get it much quicker than that. Hold on!’ Roger sat still and tense, watching the street, seeing a man turn into the mews, feeling the sense of danger acutely. The physical risks worried Janet; the risks for Vanity Roy worried him. If one or the other of her cousins tried to kill her, he could be stopped; but supposing a third party was used, someone of whom the police knew nothing? One shot would be enough.
Turnbull came on again. ‘He’s asked her to meet him at the Gallery office in Bond Street, at half-past eleven.’
Roger hesitated. He could go to Bond Street, and wait for the girl, and for Michael Ashley to arrive before or after her. Or he could wait here, ready to follow the girl and make sure that nothing happened to her on the way. If Ashley was the killer, there was no telling how deep his cunning lay.
‘Any instructions?’ Turnbull asked.
Roger said: ‘Yes. Leave your end to Micklewright. Go to the Gallery office, get in and make yourself scarce. Have all patrols concentrated on the roads from here to New Bond Street; all radio cars to report when Vanity Roy passes. I’ll follow her. Tell Anderson to keep in constant touch with me.’
‘Don’t follow her!’ Turnbull bellowed. ‘You’re bound to be seen, you’ll only give the game away.’
Roger said: ‘I’ll chance that.’
‘But—’ began Turnbull, and then his tone changed. ‘Half a mo’, Hardy wants to talk to you.’ There was a pause, before he spoke again. ‘He wants you to report here right away,’ he said with curious emphasis, as if he were overanxious. ‘Too bad.’
Roger said: ‘Thanks,’ and flicked off, but didn’t move. Turnbull had tried to stop him from following the girl, and there must be a very good reason for that.
‘Mr West?’ a man said over the air.
‘West speaking.’
‘Mr James Wickham has just arrived at Scotland Yard, and asked for you. He wishes to see you urgently.’
It was impossible even to guess what would come next.
Roger said: ‘Tell him I’m out, but that Chief Inspector Micklewright will see him. Ask Mr Micklewright to see him at once, and report the reasons for his call.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And ask Mr Hardy to have a word with me.’
‘He’s with the Assistant Commissioner, sir.’
‘Since when?’ Roger snapped.
‘For the last half-hour, at least,’ the Information Room man said.
So there was no doubt that Turnbull had lied.
Roger tossed a second, half-smoked cigarette out of the window, and saw a signal from the chauffeur at the front of the Rolls Royce. Here was Vanity Roy. Roger started the engine. The girl came walking briskly towards the entrance and he thought again that she was so near perfection that it was easy to forget she was so small. Her figure was lovely, her legs beautiful, her carriage full of grace. She didn’t look at him, but along the road, as if she wanted a taxi. She turned left, towards Park Lane; she would get a cab there quickly enough. She walked more quickly than one expected, and was drawing further away. A police car at the corner was waiting, two men in it also watching her, but there was that sense of danger, the sense that Michael Ashley or someone unknown might attack her there – or round the corner – or in the next street.
She passed the police car.
The radio crackled.
‘… Michael Ashley has got into a taxi and instructed the driver to take him to Victoria Station.’
‘Thanks.’ That was near Chelsea, not far from the studio; nowhere near the Gallery office.
What the hell was Turnbull playing at?
A personal triumph, of course; the bloody fool.
Roger turned the corner. The girl was raising a hand at a taxi which pulled across the road towards her. She got in and closed the door, and the taxi started off towards Hyde Park Corner. It was now nearly certain that the crisis would be at the studio, but all the concentration of the Yard’s men was at New Bond Street. To countermand that now might cause confusion, and would certainly call for an explanation, and the girl might be going a long way round to try to shake off anyone who followed her.
The radio—
‘… Ashley was followed to Victoria, but evaded the two detectives following him.’
God!
‘See that every approach to 17, View Crescent, Chelsea, is double-watched,’ Roger ordered. That at least he could do.
He was approaching Victoria, at the end of Buckingham Palace Road. It was useless to blame the men following Ashley, any man could get away from a tailer if he wanted to. Obviously he was going straight to Chelsea.
If Turnbull had lied in the hope of a great personal triumph, he would be at the studio, to hear what Ashley and the girl had to say. He would have to have a cast-iron case to save himself from the consequences of the deception.
They turned off the King’s Road towards the river, with the taxi rattling along. It turned into sight
of the Thames, which looked grey and turgid, then swung into the crescent. As he pulled up, Roger saw it stop. Vanity Roy got out and paid the driver off.
The radio came: ‘… Ashley has been seen climbing the fire escape of 14, View Crescent.’
That meant that he was going over the roof to No. 17.
‘How many of our men are in the crescent?’ Roger demanded.
‘Four, sir.’
Plus Turnbull, inside?
The radio sounded again, as if impatiently: ‘Mr West?’
‘West speaking.’
‘James Wickham came here to report that he had received a cable from Miss Rapelli in New York, which he did not understand. He brought the cable with him. Chief Inspector Micklewright has asked him to wait.’
‘That’s right,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll call back.’
The girl was at the front door of the house, letting herself in with a key. She disappeared, and closed the door behind her. If Roger tried to talk to the Yard men, she would get too far ahead. Roger took out a pass key, gave the girl time to reach a landing ahead of him, opened the door and stepped in after her. He could hear her walking up. Would Ashley kill her, in Wickham’s flat? Kill her here, pretend to find her dead, and blame Wickham? Frame Wickham? That was probably what he hoped to do.
In any case, Turnbull was inside.
But supposing he wasn’t?
That thought was driven out of Roger’s mind when another door opened.
18: Reason for Fear
TURNBULL heard a man’s footsteps on the fire escape, and stepped into the studio. He had prepared a hiding place in a corner, behind easels and canvases, none of which had been disturbed; here were the slashed likenesses of Margaret Roy. Turnbull stood in the corner, ready to duck out of sight. A man entered the flat by the fire escape door, closed the door sharply, and then seemed to stand still for a moment, as if he were looking round.
Then he stepped to his room; and to the studio archway.
Turnbull made no sound as he ducked.
The newcomer was Ashley.
The painter stepped further into the room, and looked round, as if expecting to see something here. He moved to the window and stared out over the rooftops. Turnbull was safe unless the other man decided to move these canvases.
There were more footsteps outside; a girl’s.
Turnbull could not see Ashley’s face clearly, but he had an impression of a smile. Ashley disappeared as the outer door opened and Vanity Roy came in with her key.
Turnbull straightened up, but was poised to bob down again if the others came in here; or if West came.
‘Mike, what’s all the mystery about?’ Vanity asked, and Turnbull heard what he had only seen before: the fear which was deep in her.
‘Hallo, Van,’ Ashley greeted, and there was a curiously flat note in his voice. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly. You’re looking a bit pale.’
‘You asked me to hurry.’
‘I didn’t ask you to kill yourself,’ Ashley said, and suddenly he laughed; then Turnbull heard a movement and a sharp click.
‘Why are you locking and bolting the door?’ Vanity demanded, and fear became livid in her voice. ‘Michael! What’s the matter with you, have you gone crazy?’
Turnbull thought: ‘Well, I’ve got the answer we’ve been waiting for.’ His teeth were bared in a grin.
‘Not crazy, Vanity darling,’ Ashley answered. ‘I’m very, very sane. Don’t move to the door, it won’t make any difference. Tell me, how long have you known?’
Turnbull left his hiding place, very stealthily, and went towards the archway. No one else could come, no one could spoil his triumph.
He could hear Vanity’s laboured breathing.
She said: ‘Mike, I’ve known for a long time, Margaret told me, but—but I’m not like Margaret.’
Good girl! Turnbull exulted.
‘What do you mean?’ Ashley demanded.
‘I’m not like Margaret, I—I don’t care what you do, I’m only interested in what I can get out of it. Mike, I’d never talk to the police.’
‘Good God!’ Ashley gasped.
‘If I’d wanted to, I would have told them days ago,’ Vanity said, desperately. ‘I only want to help – Mike, put that gun away!’ She was almost at screaming point. ‘Put it away!’
Roger was at the door, thinking: ‘If Turnbull isn’t inside, Ashley will kill her.’ A detective officer from the street had seen and followed Roger, so he wasn’t alone, but he felt helpless.
‘Get an axe, so that we can break this door down,’ he whispered. ‘And tell the men at the back to break in at the window.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Roger heard the man move off, and then heard Ashley speak again.
Ashley asked in a conversational way: ‘Did you really know I killed Maggie, Van?’
‘I—I knew it must have been you or Jimmy.’
‘You fooled me completely,’ Ashley said. ‘I thought you’d hate her killer. But if you didn’t tell the police what she told you – by the way, what did she tell you?’
‘About the fakes, and about her telephoning old Rapelli.’
‘Well, well!’ Ashley exclaimed. ‘You really had it under your hat! Did you know that I tried to kill you because Margaret told me you knew? If Jimmy hadn’t talked you into going down to the cottage, you wouldn’t have been alive today.’
She hardly noticed what he said about Margaret, she was so intent on reasoning with him until the police revealed themselves.
‘Mike, I—I’d never have betrayed you or Jimmy,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You ought to have known that.’
‘Jimmy?’ Ashley echoed, in a sharp voice. ‘Jimmy doesn’t know as much as you, he’s the innocent boy.’
‘Then who—who was it?’ Vanity asked. ‘Margaret said there were two. I thought—’
She broke off, unable to think of anything else to say, and terrified by the expression in Michael’s eyes. She felt sure that he knew she was lying, and believed that he would kill her.
He gave a queer, shrill laugh.
‘Oh, there were two of us, Van – Clint and me. I’m surprised that Maggie didn’t make that clear. Clint began it all, only you didn’t know him as Clint, you knew him as Ordin, Maggie’s one-time boyfriend.’
‘Ordin!’ Vanity exclaimed.
‘That’s right,’ Ashley said, and checked another laugh. ‘He thought he’d get us all where he wanted us, but Telisa and I had plans for that gentleman. The swine nearly killed me, he nearly—’
‘Mike, don’t look at me like that!’
‘Am I scaring you, Van?’ Ashley asked. ‘All right, I’ll put the gun away.’
But he didn’t.
There was a movement just beyond the archway. Vanity opened her mouth to scream a warning, but Ashley thrust her aside, and stepped forward.
Turnbull appeared, and gave a fierce grin.
Ashley shot him.
Vanity saw Turnbull flinch: saw the look of disbelief on his handsome face. He put a hand to his chest, and staggered. He did not make a sound. He seemed to try to throw himself forward at Michael, but before he reached Michael he collapsed; and she saw him sprawling there as she crouched against the wall.
Outside, Roger heard the shot, and while it was still echoing, he spun round to the man with the axe. As he grabbed and wielded it, Roger felt despair merging into terror.
Why wasn’t Turnbull doing something?
The girl gasped: ‘Michael, no, Michael!’
There was the policeman, lying there as if dead, and there was Michael drawing very close to her, with an expression different from anything she had ever seen before, a kind of vicious hatred on his face. He was holding the gun towards her, only a yard away, but was stretching out his other arm, as if he wanted to touch her before he fired. She could not scream, could hardly breathe, but she dodged to one side and tried to run. He snatched at her with his left hand, caught her arm, and jerked her towards him. The glitter in his eye
s seemed one of madness. She saw him thrust the gun closer to her face. All she could see was the grey barrel, the muzzle, and death ready to speak from it. She tried to get away but could not, and she screamed.
Then came bedlam.
There was thudding on the door; the crash of breaking glass; and a flutter of movement from Turnbull on the floor. He grabbed Ashley’s ankle, although Vanity did not see him. She only saw the muzzle of the gun waver, there was a roar of a shot, and blackness enveloped her.
She lost consciousness.
The door first sagged and then gave way, its one bolt torn from the door frame. Roger and the man with him staggered in as another detective, blood streaming from a cut in his cheek, reached the archway from the studio window. Turnbull was on the floor. The girl was, too. Ashley was backing away, tight-lipped, covering Roger with the automatic, but seeing the other men and forced to realise that he could not get away.
‘Drop that gun,’ Roger said, and went forward as if the automatic were a toy. ‘Go on, drop it.’ He was a yard away when the man with the cut cheek leapt at Ashley, and overpowered him; and as Roger took the gun away, more police streamed in …
The girl did not seem to be injured, but Turnbull was bleeding from a bullet wound close to the heart, and he looked as if he might bleed to death.
‘Pad that wound,’ Roger ordered a sergeant, ‘and make sure the ambulance is on the way.’ He felt a strange sense of relief mingled with cold fury which Turnbull’s condition did not ease.
Then Turnbull said in a thick voice: ‘Tape recorder’s on that bookcase. There’s your evidence. I got there—first.’
He lost consciousness before he could say another word.
‘I can cover up for him, or I can have him kicked out,’ Roger thought. ‘What the hell am I to do?’
At heart, he knew: Turnbull as a policeman would never really make the grade.
But—
He might die, and solve the problem himself.
‘We haven’t got the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed yet,’ Roger said to Hardy, ‘but I think we’ve got most of it. The overall crime was fraud and smuggling, with Ashley, Clint and Telisa Rapelli the partners. Clint had an affair with Margaret Roy, who learned about the fakes, and he killed her. She tried to save herself by saying that Vanity Roy knew, so it would be useless to kill her. That put Vanity on the spot, but James Wickham, who knew nothing of what was happening, wanted to get her out of the way. Ashley helped him, but tried to kill her as soon as she returned to London. It was Ashley who slashed Wickham’s paintings, to give the murder a psychopathic look.’