The distance between the flat and the Eaton Square house had been paced out with him and gave a timing of thirteen minutes; which gave a sandwich time of roughly six-thirty, and a time when digestion of it had ceased at between seven and seven-thirty.
It was between seven and seven-thirty that an alibi was needed now.
It was between these times that Colbert-Greer didn’t have one.
Warton carefully read out his statement.
Colbert-Greer had had an appointment at Shaft at nine o’clock, but because he’d finished his work early and needed exercise he had gone for a walk. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was a raw evening so he’d walked fast. He thought he’d turned in to The Gold Key somewhere round about eight o’clock (‘almost exactly dead on eight,’ Warton said), where he had found friends and where he had become, he was sorry to say, the weeniest bit pissed. This had caused him to remain there till nine-thirty.
A few questions had been put to Colbert-Greer after his statement. He’d been asked if he had received any phone calls just before he left, or had heard his phone ringing as he went out. After a thoughtful pause he had said he hadn’t. He had been asked if anyone might recall having seen him during his lengthy walk. With no pause at all he had jauntily replied that since it was dark and cold and every other pedestrian in the street walking just as briskly, he doubted it.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Warton said. ‘Same sort of thing we’ve always had from him. Perky. Always leaving a few vague loopholes to be investigated. Investigate them, and you find he’s in the clear. In the clear on the loopholes, that is. And only vague about them. On vital timing he’s always been careful.’
He briefly recapped some earlier bits of timing.
For Wu’s murder, his alibi had been the Indian. But he had been the one who had carefully told the Indian the time.
Shortly after the Dutch girl’s murder – within minutes of the attack on little Steve – he had coolly presented himself for his appointment with Steve. He had kept this appointment bang on the dot, though he’d apparently walked all the way.
At the time of the present murder, supposedly at eight, he had been getting himself ‘the weeniest bit pissed’ in a highly public place.
‘It’s always been important to him, timing,’ Warton said, ‘and I take blame for not spotting it.’
He gave the reasons for this. He had simply never been able to view Colbert-Greer as capable of murder. And he thought that from the very first interview Colbert-Greer had spotted it. His manner had certainly changed. He had become cocky, roguish, consistently over-stressing his sexual ambiguity, even his deviance with regard to drugs.
He had cheekily let them find the small quantity of marijuana. The manner in which he had allowed this to happen, in which he had allowed them to find the sketchbook – the whole life style he had exhibited for them – had shown a general fecklessness, surely unlikely in the cool and collected murderer they were looking for. Only with hindsight was it possible to see this feck lessness as in fact recklessness; a controlled recklessness, of the kind predicted by the psychiatrist.
The sketchbook, Warton thought, had been designed to lead them to Artie Johnston. And it looked as if Artie had cottoned on to this. He had certainly at some point become suspicious of Colbert-Greer. As had been noted – he nodded at Mason, whose observations were now in the Journal – he had steered clear of him at the gay club.
On Artie himself, he thought much of their earlier thinking could still stand. He had certainly been at Wu’s cash-box, with Steve Giffard; had probably taken something from it. Just as probably he had mailed the something to Liverpool, and had gone up to dispose of it. But he doubted now if he’d mailed the lot, because he doubted if they’d found the lot. Someone had been at Wu first, and presumably also at his cash-box; had perhaps cunningly left in the box just about the sum so urgently needed for the film.
Artie’s subsequent movements, suspicious at the time, had proved innocent enough. His sudden dash to the restaurant had been only to collect his copy of the shooting script, left in the confusion of the late night before, and needed for technical work on the film. All his sudden trips about London of the past few days had been found to concern only the film.
On Steve Gififard the record was less straight. The only timing for him was his monitored phone call to Artie. It was an exact timing, however, and both it and the transcribed contents seemed to clear him beyond reasonable doubt. It was virtually impossible for him to have nipped over to the Arab’s, done everything that had been done there, and return inside half an hour; apart from the fact that his arm was in a sling. Of course, the arm could have been taken out of the sling – his wounds must be on the mend – but for any credible view of him as a suspect too many things were lacking.
‘Mainly in the department of inches,’ Warton said. ‘Switch that thing on again, Summers.’
Summers switched on the video and the four men watched. They ran it several times, watching in particular the booted feet to see if anything in that quarter might be helping in the department of inches. But nothing was. The rubber boots were normal, and the masked figure walked normally in them. The huge wig made exact assessment difficult, but allowing for essential anatomy below, especially the eyes, they were able to agree on height.
‘It’s six-tooters and over we’re after,’ Warton said, ‘and we’ve only got two, and one of them we know it can’t be.’
‘Pull in Colbert-Greer, sir?’ Summers said.
‘No. The bloke was wrong, not the strategy. I want a double tail on him. I want a double tail on all three.’
‘All three?’ Summers said, blanching. ‘That’s eighteen men.’
‘That’s right,’ Warton said, and mused. The character they were after was as elusive as a butterfly, with a habit of fluttering away under your hand; as under the hands of the man in Oxford Street a thousand years ago. To be certain of a win at the three-card trick, and wasteful as it seemed, you had to put your money on all three.
32
AT the time that the tails went on him, Frank was up in the reference library, sniggering. Brenda found him at it when she went in to tell him it was a quarter-past five. She did this not as a courtesy to him, but because she’d just had a phone call asking her to.
He seemed to be laughing over a number of copies of something, which he swept together quite briskly and put in his pocket.
‘Are you going to clear up all this mess, then, before you go?’ Brenda said.
‘Darling, I’m going to clear up a lot of messes before I go,’ Frank told her. ‘Just you wait and see when my book comes out,’ he added.
‘I’ll die of impatience,’ Brenda said.
Frank looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Will you, now?’ he said. ‘Well, that would be an interesting way to go, wouldn’t it? … How about giving the scholars a hand, then, and we’ll have this little place neat as a pin in no time.’
There was something so overpoweringly sickening about him today – malicious as well as mischievous – that Brenda couldn’t bear to be in the room with him.
‘Okay, leave it,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it. You go now.’
‘Well, you little love!’ Frank said. ‘Are you sure now?’
‘Positive. Good night.’
Behind Frank, as he left the library, two arms of the law took station and proceeded along Manresa Road with him, turning at the corner into the King’s Road. All three of them walked to the post office, and two of them waited there while Frank went on alone to keep his appointment. It was only at Mooney’s opposite.
*
All day at the Globe acrimony and complaint had filled the air.
‘If it’s laid down as a fact of nature,’ Chris said, ‘that Arabs are just now not in season –’
‘Yes, and if one’s every bloody utterance is to be treated with quite such literal –’
‘And if a specific instruction is given to scrub Arabs, is it wholly reasonabl
e to hurl charges, rebukes and seven barrels of shit if that instruction –’
‘Well, what’s she doing about this bloody Arab?’
*
‘What we really want to do,’ Mooney said, ‘is give it a colossal spread. I mean, we’re talking here not just about little paragraphs or news items. We’re talking about a spread – the centre spread, with front page billing, and photos of all three of you, and frames from the film. You can surely see what’s in that?’
‘I can see what’s in it for you,’ Artie said. ‘I don’t see what’s in it for us. I mean, if they’ve got no photos of Abo or this costume, and we do have them on our frames, and you’re the only one who knows about it, a smart chick like you has to see that more chan a small piece of change is involved.’
‘Christ, Artie, you’re small-minded. You’re being offered chousands in free publicity. They’ll blow up your film into a auge saleable property –’
‘We don’t have one, sweetie. We haven’t finished it. We need the money to finish it.’
‘And this will bring it, you barmy idiot. It will bring in dozens of people.’
‘She’s right,’ Steve said. ‘She is, you know. Only all three of us have to agree. And where’s bloody Frank got to again?’
Bloody Frank was just then peering at doorbells below. One of them said S. J. Tizack, M.Ch.S. Chiropodist. 1st Floor. Press & Enter. The other said top. He pressed Top.
‘Hello,’ hailed a faraway voice through the battered grill from Top.
‘It’s Frank, Mary.’
‘Okay, push … You in?’
‘In.’
Frank went into the gloomy passage and up the stairs. Someone was howling gently in S. J. Tizack’s. He carried on up the next flight, and found Mooney grimly waiting on the landing.
‘Five o’clock was the time,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Mary. Sorry you had to ring Brenda. I lost track.’
‘Well, come in and tell your producer he’s a silly sod.’
Apprised of the situation, Frank gave it immediate and wholehearted approval. ‘It’s a marvellous idea,’ he said. ‘Of course you must do it, darling.’
‘Hang on,’ Steve said. ‘Artie has some marvellous ideas, too.’
He told Frank Artie’s ideas, and Mooney answered with her own, and while doing it suddenly realized that Artie himself had stopped giving ideas. He hadn’t said a word since Frank’s arrival. She recalled the true purpose of this meeting; and to give herself time to think, turned away to pour drinks.
The true purpose was not the one at present under discussion. She was certain that the Globe would print the spread, but she didn’t want them to. Not yet. She wanted no Press interest in the film story until she’d landed the main one. And the main one, she sensed, was close now.
One of these three was the murderer. And two of the three knew it; she was sure of that. She was trembling slightly as she turned with the drinks.
She let them haggle for a while on the subject of treatment and fees; waiting for the main story to come up. One of them would bring it up.
Steve did. ‘Are we still under suspicion, by the way?’ he said.
‘Yes, all still in the running,’ Mooney lightly told him. ‘But only because they’ve got nobody else. You know how they think.’
‘I don’t, darling,’ Frank said. ‘They’re wonders to me, those men. You mean they honestly think we’re depleting the neighbourhood?’
‘They know just one person is doing it.’
‘Why?’ Artie said. He’d livened up suddenly.
‘The messages are all from the same hand.’
‘Hand-written messages?’ Steve said curiously.
‘From the same person, anyway. And there’s apparently nothing random in the murders. They’ve had accurate warning each time.’
‘Have they actually told you that?’ Frank said, fascinated.
‘Not for publication. But another thing they know is that the victims were all quite well known to the murderer.’
‘Well, they were certainly known to us,’ Frank said.
‘That’s why you’re all in the running.’
‘Is it why they’re searching again?’
‘Who’s searching?’ Mooney said.
‘The police. I’ve got a bank box in Lombard Street – a few things of my father’s. They went through it again today.’
‘Did they tell you?’ Artie said.
‘They didn’t. A chap at the bank did – on the phone this afternoon.’
Artie stared at him.
‘I thought you were at the library all afternoon,’ he said.
‘Well, I called him. Had to pop out: another matter. But there it is. Still at it, you see.’ His eyes were mischievous behind the glasses. ‘Could it be numbered dollars, do you think?’ he asked Artie.
Artie didn’t reply, but Mooney did. ‘They’re after a lot of things,’ she said. ‘And they’re looking in a lot of places.’
Steve took his arm from the sling and gently eased it. ‘Maybe that explains this,’ he said. With the other hand he rummaged in his pocket and brought out the Chelsea Gazette. ‘“Landladies warned of artful lodger”,’ he read, as he unfolded it.
Mooney felt her cheeks grow hot as he read out the report. But his eyes were on the paper, and the eyes of the other two were on him. Mooney kept her eyes on all three, and saw no flicker of reaction.
‘So what!’ Artie said, when he had finished.
‘They seem to think he has another room somewhere.’
‘Well, what will they think of next?’ Frank said, looking at his watch. ‘If that’s the lot, gentlemen, and lady … Pressing social engagements, you know.’
‘We’ll settle Mary first,’ Steve said.
They’d already settled the outlines of the story, so the only question remaining was financial. They settled that the Globe had to do better than £500. ‘Which is still a lousy deal,’ Artie said. ‘But for a fast one we’ll take it.’
Mooney said she’d try for a fast one, and waited on the landing till she heard the door below slam behind them. Then she went to the kitchen and opened the gas oven. The tape recorder was running quietly inside.
She took it out and listened to a few minutes of the conversation, blinking rapidly.
She still couldn’t be certain which of them it was.
All she knew was that the story of a lifetime was here. It was almost ready for hatching now.
She gave them a few more minutes to get clear of the place, and then put on an anorak and descended through the now empty building. Her bike was in a cubby hole behind the stairs. She manhandled it, swearing, through the narrow front door, and took off on her evening’s mission.
In view of the newspaper report, just read out, it wasn’t the healthiest mission to be engaged on. But she pedalled rapidly off. Two hours wasted on the meeting – except not wasted if she found what she wanted, or even if the police found it first. Either way it was probably her last chance of seeing the three of them together.
And in this, Mooney was right. It was her last chance.
She had a blank night on the landlady front.
33
IN the night, the telex began chattering from Munich. There wasn’t enough in it for the duty officer to disturb Warton, but an early call went to him in the morning, and he drove briskly to Chelsea.
Nellie Heemskerk had been located. Further details would be supplied as soon as possible. The details began coming in as soon as he entered the Incident Room, and he sat by the machine himself, watching the words appearing on the paper.
The English was rather odd, but the sense admirably clear and methodical. Nellie Heemskerk was registered at the Munich Academy of Art. Delay in locating her was because she had gone into religious retreat for the week of Advent; she was in a small convent at the nearby village of Nymphenburg.
HAVE YOU QUESTIONED HER? Warton typed.
The machine purred and chattered back. PRESENTLY NOT. CONVENT SILE
NT FUR ADVENTWOCHE. IF URGENT MUST TRY MUTTER.
‘Mutter?’ Warton said, scowling.
‘Maybe they whisper there,’ Summers suggested.
‘I think, sir,’ Mason said, and coughed.
‘Eh?’ Warton turned and peered up at him. ‘I thought you were on night turn, lad.’
‘Just off it, sir. I think Mutter is German for Mother. Mother Superior.’
‘Ng.’ Warton got busy with two fingers. He punched out: MUCH OBLIGED. PLEASE TELL MUTTER MATTER … He scratched his head and started agan. PLEASE TELL MUTTER THE MATTER IS LIFE OR DEATH. MUST KNOW IF HEEMSKERK HAS LETTERS FROM DEAD GIRL GROOT.
The machine purred a moment and responded. UNDER - STOOD. WILL TRY MUTTER AND ADVISE YOU.
‘Efficient coppers there,’ Warton said, with some satisfaction, tearing off the paper roll for filing. ‘Look at this, Summers. Passport number, place and date of birth … Religious retreat, eh?’
He noticed that Summers was not looking at him. A slight disturbance had broken out at the far end of the Incident Room where the postal clerks were sitting. He saw a postman standing there, and went swiftly over.
They were just opening it, using Kleenex sheets. It was addressed to Murder HQ.
Warton stared at the contents, and then at Summers.
All as before: cartridge paper, four lines of Letraset Gothic.
For every time
She shouted ‘Fire!’
They only answered
‘Little liar!’
‘Why, that’s Belloc’s!’ Mason said.
‘Now then, Mason!’ said Summers, in some surprise, having misheard the vowel.
‘Hilaire Belloc. The poet. I’m sure of it.’
In Warton’s room, they swiftly checked. Belloc’s it was:
For every time She shouted ‘Fire!’
They only answered ‘Little liar!’
The Chelsea Murders Page 20
