The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  He had made it sound as if the duty of the official named was to watch them rather than him.

  But for this meeting, though he remained cheerful – knowing they’d find nothing, at least of the kind they so paramountly hoped to find – Frank had to wait.

  Even earlier Warton had been alerted to the additional evidence now very rapidly building up.

  *

  The clock was an hour earlier in Munich and the stuff had started coming through before the last shift was off. The duty inspector had called Warton, and read the message. The subject Heemskerk (born, etc., passport number, etc.) had been driven back to Munich late the previous night and was going through her papers. They would be transmitted when available.

  Before he left home, Warton had phoned in himself, and had found one of his own inner team reliably there. The fellow had noted that the stuff was coming through in Dutch and had already made arrangements to have a Dutch translator on hand.

  There was an air of solid business when he arrived; Summers now there and assembling the material.

  ‘There’s no stopping them, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re sending every bloody word she ever wrote.’

  Grooters had written seven letters to her friend Nellie, all of which she had kept, and all of which were being painstakingly transmitted, with frequent breaks for repetition of uncertain passages; the language unfamiliar to the man at the other end of the telex.

  Warton cast an eye over the early pages as he sipped his coffee. It was coming in sheet by typed sheet from the translator in the Incident Room.

  Grooters was happy to say she felt a perfect Londoner. She had a quaint flatlet in an old English mansion that had belonged to a Sir Arthur Comyns – the Comyns Hall of Residence in the address. The Albert Bridge Road was named after Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, and she could actually see the bridge, gracefully spanning the Thames and beautifully lit up like a Christmas tree. At the art school everybody was most helpful and courteous in the English manner …

  ‘Ng … How’s the mail?’ Warton said.

  The mail was productive, too. Three of the landladies approached through box numbers had replied. One had returned the cheque, another had kept it as a deposit, saying that rooms were frequently available since the house was conveniently close to the West London air terminal.

  ‘West London? A bit far out,’ Warton said. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘This particular ad. went in all editions, sir. Eight papers.’

  ‘Unlikely … What’s this?’ He was looking at the third.

  It was headed 67, Sevastopol Street.

  It was signed N. Ruddle (Mrs).

  ‘That one,’ Summers said, ‘seems to me a possible, sir. Between Albert Bridge Road and the power station – rundown area.’

  Warton carefully read it.

  As he did so, he felt the thing almost move in his hands, like a water-diviner’s rod.

  He suddenly knew it was going to happen today.

  N. Ruddle of Sevastopol Street said that a room had that day suddenly become available.

  Yes, the clever bastard had seen the Press story; had got the point. So the room had suddenly become available. One jump ahead. Not a very long jump.

  The phone rang while he was reading, and Summers answered and handed him the receiver. ‘Commander, sir.’

  ‘Yes, George,’ Warton said, certain now that more was on the way; the bastard no doubt throwing crackers in all directions.

  ‘Ted, does Colston Street mean anything to you?’

  ‘Colston Street?’ He could see Summers nodding at him; but knew himself all too well. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Johnston lives there. The black.’

  ‘He does, eh? Well, get a car there fast.’

  ‘What’s –’

  ‘Anonymous letter. Don’t waste time. It’s on the way to you now.’

  ‘Okay,’ Warton said, and hung up, and gave Summers the instruction; and with Summers out of the room, re-read the letter. Then he got up and found Sevastopol Street on the wall map.

  Yes. Had to be. Dead right. Between the power station and the Albert Bridge Road. He saw the whole thing shape suddenly.

  Summers came in, and so did the letter from the Yard. Illiterately addressed:

  Rubbish Dept.,

  Police Force,

  London (Scotland Yard).

  Inside, a similarly illiterate scrawl.

  Dear Sirs,

  I am not a racist and have never held with sending the blacks back were they come. I believe in live and let live. A thing they have to learn how to use varous things like toilets and dustbins. I sorry to say we have one here who dumps his stuff all over which is not right. I see him dump yesterday in Colston Street, bottles & Things also like a carnival mask, like children they are, and this one is a Big Head (!!!) and I know for sure there is no talking, so it is for the Authoroties and not Ordinory Respectible People to See him Off.

  An Englishman and Proud of It.

  He looked at the envelope again.

  Postmarked the day before yesterday.

  So had the H.B. letter been.

  But that one had been sent first-class mail which had meant he would get it yesterday.

  This one had been sent second-class – and to the nonsense-sounding department at the Yard – which had meant he wouldn’t get it till today.

  After Colbert-Greer was safely in the lockup.

  He brooded over this.

  ‘What’s he got to say today – below?’

  ‘Asking to see you, sir.’

  ‘Is, eh? Where’s Artie.’

  ‘Tailed from his home ten minutes ago, sir … That car ought to be at Colston Street by now.’

  ‘Okay. Handle it. You’ll need more people. Want it gone through with a toothcomb, that street – any kind of rubbish tip, empty house, things like that. If they find anything, go yourself, immediately.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Warton had himself hooked up, on his corner speaker, so that he could listen to the operation; and he sat and smoked, hearing the cars and his Incident Room crackling away to each other in short bursts, and reading yesterday’s reports, also this morning’s; as well as the fresh sheets that came from the translator.

  He saw that Grooters had not approved of the clay-modelling at Chelsea Art School. Pages later, she’d at last laid hands on hammer and chisel. Pages after that, she had developed a sudden interest in art history. The lecturer was amusing, the son of the famous portraitist (wrongly spelt, Colbert-Grere). He was acquainted with Dutch art and often spoke with her.

  About ten-thirty he suddenly heard it on the speaker.

  Summers looked in to say he was on the way.

  They had found it: quite a haul.

  Minutes later, the absolute clincher came: from next door. It was so perfect, he could scarcely believe it. He had the date of the letter checked again. But the sense was so clear, it could hardly be in doubt.

  He saw the bastard still had room to wriggle, though.

  He let events take their course. He left him on his own.

  35

  THE plain car took Summers rapidly to Putney.

  He didn’t spend long there. The house was one of a terrace, windows boarded up, elderly privet hedge overgrown. It totally masked the tiny front garden. A good deal of rubbish had been tipped over the hedge. A scattering of it had been disturbed to cover the deposit now disclosed.

  Summers satisfied himself and left it guarded, and got through directly to Warton, who gave him fresh instructions.

  At his end, Warton had the light-headed feeling of a tightrope walker, swaying with his pole, the end clearly in sight. Only a step or two to be taken now.

  *

  Mrs Bulstrode always felt a bit light-headed when she got up. The earlier rising had done nothing to mitigate this. She had felt dizzy as she’d dozed off again, and now, brushing her teeth in her little bathroom, she had to hang on to the towel rail. She put her teeth back in the glass and closed her
eyes.

  Oh God, it was no fun being old.

  Some of the young kids on the wireless had sung a song about it, in the cynical way they had. They called themselves – what was it, The Rolling Stones yes – and although she’d felt awful at the time, she’d had to laugh. ‘What a dra-ag it is getting o-old,’ they’d sang. She’d actually just been sick when she’d heard it. She had been so faint she’d plonked herself down on the bed, and the little transistor had brayed from practically underneath her like a long and melodious breaking of wind.

  ‘What a dra-ag it is getting o-old!’

  But she’d had to laugh.

  They did make you laugh, young people.

  Some just made you sick, of course.

  The dizziness was easing, and she cautiously opened her eyes.

  She ought to eat something. She never felt like much, these days: tea and bread and butter. The thought of doughy bread and butter made her queasy again, so she stopped thinking of it.

  Then she remembered about the grill, and a tiny miracle of appetite flared.

  Well, now.

  She got her teeth out of the glass and prepared to get some use out of them.

  *

  There were no spaces in the narrow street, but Summers had had a word with the little busybody who was writing out parking tickets. He waited double-parked till Artie came briskly out of the Soho costumiers, and then arrested him.

  His orders were to arrest him only if he resisted, and he did resist. Artie was like a wildcat in the police car. Summers told him he would handcuff him if he didn’t pack it in, and he was in a state of sullen silence as they turned into Colston Street.

  They got him out of the car and went behind the overgrown hedge. Summers asked if he could identify anything there.

  Artie said he couldn’t.

  ‘Now, then,’ Summers said, ‘you’ve already described that mask, you know you have. That’s the missing one, isn’t it?’

  Artie said he didn’t know.

  He didn’t know about the cape, either, or the rubber boots, or the bottle of chloroform or the cleaver.

  Still on instructions, Summers took him in.

  He took him directly to Warton.

  Artie’s face had a bluish tinge, and Warton’s a yellowish one. He sat hunched in his chair and regarded Artie for a long time.

  ‘All right, sit down,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll stand.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Cigarette?’

  ‘Up your pipe,’ Artie said.

  Warton lit one himself. ‘You’ve been had, cocker,’ he said, through the smoke. ‘You’ve been done.’ He fumbled on his desk and produced the letter for Artie, and the envelope: Rubbish Dept., Police Force …

  He watched Artie read it.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ Warton said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Artie,’ Warton said, quite mildly, ‘I’m not leaning on you. You’ve been had, son. I know it. That cleaver, apart from anything else, was supposed to finger you. See that?’

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ Artie said.

  ‘How long do you think it would take me to find out if a cleaver was missing from anywhere special?’

  ‘Go and find out,’ Artie said.

  Warton watched him for a while.

  ‘Oh, sit down, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘You’re making me nervous … Listen, I’m not asking you to shop him. I just want you to answer a few simple questions. Smoke if you want, you bloody fool!’

  Artie accepted a cigarette and smoked it, which Warton took to be a good sign; but when he asked Artie the simple questions and Artie told him to go and fug himself, he realized it was going to take a little longer.

  He said, ‘Look, I’ll speak plainly. I’ve not talked to him today, and I won’t, until I’ve had it out with you. Try and understand what I’m saying. You have been under constant surveillance. Your phone has been tapped. Probably you know this. We know you couldn’t have dumped that stuff. I am not sure that he knows it. Are you following me, Artie?’

  Artie didn’t bother answering.

  Warton lit another cigarette.

  ‘I’ll put it another way,’ he said. ‘Just so you will know I am putting nothing over on you. There is an offence which you know I can get you for. I am not doing any deals with you. Probably I will get you for it. But this one is a lot more serious. Murder, Artie. In view of this letter, and. what’s been found, I am bound to hang on to you, unless you satisfactorily answer my questions. Answer them – a perfectly understandable thing to do for a man charged – and I could even let you go about your business. I know you’ve got plenty of business to attend to, Artie.’

  Artie thought about it.

  ‘Are you charging me?’ he said.

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Then get fugged,’ Artie said.

  ‘Okay. We’ll do it the long way,’ Warton said.

  By twelve-forty-five they were still doing it the long way.

  Artie couldn’t identify the costume or say if it had been altered. He couldn’t say if he’d ever seen the cleaver. He had no knowledge of Colbert-Greer’s sexual proclivities. He had never heard that the police had the numbers of Wu’s dollars.

  ‘Okay,’ Warton said. ‘And you won’t have read anywhere that we’ve had messages about these murders, then.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Artie said.

  ‘So his sense of humour will surprise you.’ He rummaged on his desk and produced a photo-copied example of it.

  Sing Hey to you –

  Good day to you!

  He watched Artie read it. Artie was smoking a fresh cigarette, and his face didn’t alter, but smoke came suddenly from his nostrils.

  ‘Ring any bells?’ Warton said.

  Artie just shook his head.

  ‘Try these,’ Warton said.

  Stolen sweets

  are always sweeter,

  Stolen kisses

  much completer.

  He watched Artie’s face.

  To dance to flutes,

  To dance to lutes,

  Is delicate

  And rare.

  ‘Nothing?’ Warton asked.

  ‘No.’

  Warton watched him for some time longer. ‘I don’t know what to do about you,’ he said. ‘What would you do in my position?’

  Artie gave him his familiar piece of advice.

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ Warton said wearily. ‘Go on, get out.’

  Artie blinked at him.

  ‘I can leave?’ he said.

  ‘Fast. Before I change my mind. I’ll get you, cocker,’ Warton said, ‘and you know what for. But this one isn’t yours. Watch your step.’

  Summers’s face was a study in consternation when he returned after detailing a man to see Artie off the premises. He had his mouth half open, but closed it again on seeing the expression on Warton’s face. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a more unpleasant one there. Warton was nodding at a sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘This here, Summers,’ he said, ‘is the last thing that poor girl wrote. She posted it less than an hour before she died. Sunday. It was sitting in the box till Monday morning. Ticking away like a time bomb, and he never knew it. He doesn’t know it.’

  Summers slowly read the sheet handed to him.

  … in a nice shade of pink, costing only four and a half pounds, that will go with my blue skirt. I have washed it (skirt) and will iron it after I have posted this off to you, which in any case I must do fast. The exciting thing I have left to the end –

  Do you see me as an actress, Nellie? Don’t laugh. I have mentioned before that he is involved also with a film. To my astonishment he told me on Friday that he had in mind a particular role for me. I could hardly believe it, but anyway we are going out tonight to eat & talk about it – thank goodness for new blouse. He is picking me up here in my room –my God, already it’s 6.30, I must fly. All this very confidential, Nellie. He swore me to secrecy – there is jealousy among the peop
le here. I could pick him up just as easily– you know he lives only on the ground floor here – but he will have colleagues visiting & does not wish them to know. Intrigue! Nellie, thank you for die money!

  Much love,

  Sonje.

  ‘He lives on the ground floor of that hostel?’ Summers said. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Three guesses,’ Warton said.

  In the three-card trick if you backed three, you got three.

  *

  Artie emerged into Lucan Place and saw a cruising taxi and flagged it. ‘King’s Road,’ he said. ‘Opposite the post office.’

  He couldn’t control his hands. On his shaking left wrist he saw it was a quarter-past one. Oh Jesus, he thought, don’t let it be too late. The Letraset messages that he had just seen flickered in his mind, and he remembered the other one, just as neatly done, God Bless This Crapper, now in Liverpool, and done by the same hand. In the one blinding flash just now, he had seen the whole lot, every fugging step of the betrayal. And the cleaver. Oh, the cleaver. Oh, the cunning bastard, to do this to him. Like children they are, and this one is a Big Head. Oh Jesus, let it not be too late.

  Artie clutched his hands together to stop them shaking, but they shook, and his whole body did. Not be too late, he prayed.

  *

  Steve had arrived quite early, in fact at a quarter to one, and he pressed the button marked top and said, ‘It’s Steve,’ as Mooney’s voice crackled through the grill.

  ‘Oh. Early,’ Mooney said, surprised. ‘Okay, push.’

  Steve pushed. He tramped up the stairs, passed Tizack’s landing, and went up one more.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said.

  ‘You can say that again!’ Mooney said. She’d been in for half an hour, solidly typing. She had taken a few files from the office and had them scattered on the table in the general mess of papers. The phone rang at that moment and she answered it.