by Jack Higgins
Jenny Crowther was twenty-two years of age, a practical, hard-headed Yorkshire girl who had never visited London in her life, but in her crocheted minidress and dark stockings she would have passed in the West End without comment.
“Feeling better, love?” her grandmother enquired as she entered the room.
Jenny nodded, rubbing her hands as she approached the fire. “It’s nice to be dry.”
“Eh, Jenny love,” the old woman said. “I don’t know how you can wear yon dress. I can see your knickers.”
“You’re supposed to, Gran.” The old woman stared in blank amazement across a gulf that was exactly fifty years wide and the girl picked up the empty coal scuttle. “I’ll get some coal, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
The coal was in a concrete bunker to the left of the front door and when she opened it, light flooded across the yard, outlining her thighs clearly through the crocheted dress as she paused, looking at the rain. She took an old raincoat from a peg, hitched it over her shoulders, went down the steps and lifted the iron trap at the base of the coal bunker. There was no sound and yet she turned, aware from some strange sixth sense of the danger that threatened her. She caught a brief glimpse of a dark shape, the vague blur of a face beneath a rain hat, and then great hands had her by the throat.
The Gunner went over the edge of the platform, hung for a moment at the end of the block and tackle, then dropped to the cobbles. He moved in fast, smashing a fist into the general area of the other man’s kidneys when he got close enough. It was like hitting a rock wall. The man flung the girl away from him and turned. For a moment, the Gunner saw the face clearly, lips drawn back in a snarl. An arm swept sideways with amazing speed, bunched knuckles catching him on the side of the head, sending him back against one of the trucks. The Gunner went down on one knee and the girl’s attacker went past him in a rush. The judas banged and the man’s running steps faded along the back street.
As the Gunner got to his feet, Ma Crowther called from the doorway, “Make another move and I’ll blow your head off.”
She was holding a double-barrelled shotgun, the barrels of which had been sawn down to nine inches in length, transforming it into one of the most dangerous and vicious weapons in the book.
Jenny Crowther moved away from the wall, a hand to her throat and shook her head. “Not him, Gran. I don’t know where he came from, but it was a good job he was around.”
The Gunner was impressed. Any other bird he’d ever known, even the really hard knocks, would have been on their backs after an experience like that, but not this one.
“Which mob were you in then, the Guards?” he demanded.
The girl turned to look at him, grinning instantly and something was between them at once, unseen perhaps, but almost physical in its strength. Like meeting like, with instantaneous recognition.
She looked him over, taking in the sailor’s uniform, the bare feet and laughed, a hand to her mouth. “Where on earth did you spring from?”
“The loft,” the Gunner told her.
“Shall I get the police, love?” Ma Crowther asked.
The Gunner cut in quickly. “Why bother the peelers about a little thing like this? You know what it’s like on a Saturday night. A bloke has a few pints, then follows the first bit of skirt he sees. Sometimes he tries to go a bit too far like the geezer who just skipped, but it’s all come out in the wash. Once it’s reported in the papers, all the old dears will think he screwed you, darlin’, even if he didn’t,” he assured the girl gaily.
“Here, just a minute,” the old woman said. “Bare feet and dressed like a sailor. I know who you are.” She turned to the girl and said excitedly, “They’ve just had a flash on Northern Newscast. This is Gunner Doyle.”
“Gunner Doyle?” the girl said.
“The boxer. Your Dad used to take me to see him. Topped the bill at the Town Hall a couple of times. Doing five years at Manningham Gaol. They took him into the infirmary because they thought he was ill and he gave them the slip earlier this evening.”
The girl stood looking at him, legs slightly apart, a hand on her hip and the Gunner managed a tired, tired grin. “That’s me, the original naughty boy.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “But you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Better come inside.” She turned and took the shotgun from the old woman’s grasp. “It’s all right, Gran. He won’t bite.”
“You forgot something,” the Gunner said.
She turned in the doorway. “What’s that, then?”
“What you came out for in the first place.” He picked up the coal scuttle. “Lad’s work, that’s what my Aunty Mary always used to say.”
He got down on his knees to fill it. When he straightened and turned wearily, the girl said, “I don’t know why, but I think I like your Aunty Mary.”
The Gunner grinned. “She’d go for you, darlin’. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
He swayed suddenly and she reached out and caught his arm in a grip of surprising strength. “Come on then, soldier, you’ve had enough for one night,” and she drew him into the warmth.
7
Faulkner frowned, enormous concentration on his face as he leaned over the drawing board and carefully sketched in another line. When the door bell rang he ignored it and continued working. There was another more insistent ring. He cursed softly, covered the sketch with a clean sheet of cartridge paper and went to the door.
He opened it to find Chief Superintendent Mallory standing there, Miller at his shoulder. Mallory smiled politely. “Mr. Faulkner? Chief Superintendent Mallory. I believe you’ve already met Detective Sergeant Miller.”
Faulkner showed no particular surprise, but his eyes widened slightly when he looked at Miller. “What is all this? Tickets for the policeman’s ball?”
Mallory’s manner was dangerously gentle. “I wonder if we could have a few words with you, sir?”
Faulkner stood to one side, ushering them into the studio with a mock bow. “Be my guest, Superintendent.”
He closed the door and as he turned to face them, Mallory said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “We’re making enquiries concerning a Miss Packard, Mr. Faulkner. I understand you might be able to help us?”
Faulkner lit a cigarette and shrugged. “To the best of my knowledge I’ve never even heard of her.”
“But she was with you earlier this evening at Joanna Hartmann’s party,” Miller put in.
“Oh, you mean Grace?” Faulkner nodded. “I’m with you now. So the viper’s discovered it can sting, has it? Has he made a formal complaint?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, sir,” Mallory said. “Grace Packard is dead. Her body was found in an alley called Dob Court not far from here less than an hour ago. Her neck was broken.”
There was a short silence during which both policemen watched Faulkner closely, waiting for some reaction. He seemed genuinely bewildered and put a hand to his forehead. “Either of you feel like a drink?”
Mallory shook his head. “No thank you, sir.”
“Well, I do.” He moved to the fire and tossed his cigarette into the flames. “You say she was found about an hour ago?”
“That’s right.” Faulkner glanced up at the clock. It was just coming on to eleven-thirty-five and Mallory said, “What time did she leave here?”
Faulkner turned slowly. “Who said she was here at all?” He looked at Miller with a frown. “Have you been bothering Joanna?”
Miller shook his head. “When I telephoned, the party was still going strong from the sound of things. I spoke to the maid. She told me that you and the girl had left together.”
“All right—she was here, but for no more than ten minutes. I left at half-ten.”
“Which would indicate that she was murdered almost immediately,” Mallory said.
“Is this another of those Rainlover things?”
“We can’t be sure yet. Let’s say it falls into a familiar pattern.”
/> “Two in two days.” Faulkner was by now quite obviously over the initial shock. “He’s getting out of hand.”
Miller watched his every move, slightly puzzled. The man actually seemed to be enjoying the whole sorry business. He wondered what Faulkner had in his veins instead of blood and the big man said, “I hope you won’t mind me asking, but am I first on the list?”
“This is an informal interview, sir, solely to help us in our enquiries,” Mallory told him. “Of course you’re perfectly entitled to have your solicitor present.”
“Wouldn’t dream of dragging him away from the party,” Faulkner said. “He deserves it. You just fire away. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“You made a rather puzzling remark when we first came in,” Miller said. “Something about a viper discovering that it could sting. What did you mean by that?”
“I might as well tell you, I suppose. I’ve been working rather hard lately and completely forgot about Joanna’s birthday party. A friend, Mr. Jack Morgan, called for me and we stopped in at The King’s Arms in Lazer Street for a quick one. While we were there, the girl came in.”
“And you got into conversation?” Mallory said.
“On the contrary, I picked her up quite deliberately. She was waiting for her boy friend and he was late. I invited her to the party.”
“Why did you do that, sir?”
“Because I knew it would be infested by a miserable bunch of stuffed shirts and I thought she might liven things up a bit. She was that sort of girl. Ask Miller, he was paying enough attention to her himself from what I could see. An honest tart. Hair out of a bottle and a skirt that barely covered her backside.”
“You were at the party for about twenty minutes before I left,” Miller said. “You couldn’t have stayed for long.”
“About half an hour in all.”
“And the girl left with you?”
“You already know that, for Christ’s sake.” He swung on Mallory. “Are you sure you won’t have that drink?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I will.” He went behind the bar and reached for a bottle. “All of a sudden, things seem to be taking a rather nasty turn.”
Mallory ignored the remark. “You say she was here for no more than ten minutes.”
“That’s right.”
“I would have thought she’d have stayed longer.”
“If I’d brought her back to sleep with me, the poor little bitch would be alive now, but I didn’t.”
“Why did you bring her back?”
“To pose for me.” He swallowed a large whisky and poured himself another. “I offered her five quid to come back and pose for me.”
For a brief moment Mallory’s composure slipped. He glanced at Miller in bewilderment and Faulkner said, “As it happens I’m a sculptor. That little lot on the dais behind you is a commission I’m working on at the moment for the new Sampson building. The Spirit of Night. This is just a rough draft, so to speak—plaster on wire. I thought a fifth figure might give more balance. I brought Grace back with me to stand up there with the others so I could see.”
“And for that you paid her five pounds?”
“Ten, as a matter of fact. I wanted to know and I wanted to know right then. She happened to be available.”
“And what did you decide, sir?” Mallory asked.
“I’m still thinking about it. Well, what happens now?”
“Oh, we’ll have to make further enquiries, sir,” Mallory said. “We’ll probably have to see you again, of course, you realise that.”
They walked to the door and Faulkner opened it for them. “What about her boy friend, Superintendent? Harold, I think she called him.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
Faulkner laughed boyishly. “I suppose I’d better come clean. He arrived just as we were leaving The King’s Arms. There was something of a scene. Nothing I couldn’t handle, but he was pretty angry—at the girl more than me.”
“That’s very interesting, sir,” Mallory said. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
He went out. As Miller moved to follow him, Faulkner tapped him on the shoulder. “A private word, Sergeant,” he said softly and the smile had left his face. “Stay away from my fiancée in future. One likes to know when a friend is a friend. The trouble with all you bloody coppers is that you’re on duty twenty-four hours a day.”
There was a sudden viciousness in his voice, but Miller refused to be drawn. “Good night, Mr. Faulkner,” he said formally and went out.
Faulkner slammed the door and turned with a frown. For a while he stood there looking thoughtful, then moved back to the drawing board. He removed the clean sheet of cartridge paper, disclosing a sketch of the four statues. After a while he picked up his pencil and started to add an additional figure with bold, sure strokes.
Outside in the street, it was still raining heavily as Miller and Mallory got into the Chief Superintendent’s car where Jack Brady waited with the driver.
“What did you think?” Mallory demanded.
Miller shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He’s not the sort you meet every day of the week. Did you buy his story about taking the girl back to the studio to pose for him?”
“It’s crazy enough to be true, we just can’t tell at this stage. He’s certainly right about one thing—the girl’s boy friend wants checking out.” He turned to Brady. “You can handle that one. The fiancé’s name is Harold, that’s all we know. The girl’s father should be able to give you the rest. When you get the address, go straight round and bring him down to Central for questioning.”
“What about me, sir?” Miller asked.
“You can go back to that damned party. See Joanna Hartmann and check Faulkner’s story. I still don’t understand why he left so early. I’ll see you at Central as well when you’ve finished. Get cracking then—I’ll drop Brady off.”
His car moved away into the rain. Miller watched it go and sighed heavily as he got into the Mini-Cooper. His second visit to Joanna Hartmann’s that night was something he didn’t fancy one little bit.
8
The party had just about folded and all the guests had departed except for Jack Morgan and Frank Marlowe who sat at the bar with Joanna and her aunt, having a final drink before leaving.
The door bell chimed and Joanna looked up in surprise. “Now, who on earth can that be?”
“Probably Bruno,” her aunt remarked acidly. “Returning to tell you that all is forgiven.”
“Well, it won’t work—not this time.” Joanna was annoyed. “He can stew for a while.”
There was another ring and Frank Marlowe started to rise. “I’d better go…”
“No, I’ll handle it. I’ll see him myself.”
She opened the door, braced for her encounter and found Nick Miller standing there. “Why, Nick,” she said in bewilderment.
“Could I come in for a moment?”
“Certainly.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid nearly everyone’s gone home. We’re just having a final drink. Why don’t you join us?”
“I’d better not,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m here on business.”
As she closed the door, she stiffened, then turned very slowly. “Bruno? Something has happened to Bruno?”
Miller shook his head quickly. “He’s perfectly all right—I’ve just been speaking to him. There was a girl here earlier—a girl called Grace Packard. He brought her with him, didn’t he?”
Jack Morgan got up from his stool and came forward. “That’s right, but she left some time ago. Look here, Miller, what is this?”
“As I said, I’ve already spoken to Faulkner. She went back to his studio with him and left at approximately ten-thirty. She was found by a police officer less than fifteen minutes later in an alley a couple of streets away.”
There was a shocked gasp from Mary Beresford and Marlowe said in a whisper, “You mean she’s dead?”
“That’s right. Murdered. Her neck was broken,
probably by a sharp blow from the rear.”
“The Rainlover,” Mary Beresford said so quietly that it might have been a sigh.
“It could be,” Miller said. “On the other hand that kind of killer tends to work to a pattern and it’s a little close to his last one.” He turned to Morgan. “You’ve been here all the time?”
“Since I arrived at eighty-thirty or so.”
“I can confirm that,” Joanna said quickly. “We all can.”
“Look here,” Marlowe said. “Can we know where we stand? Is this an official call?”
“Just an enquiry.” Miller turned to Joanna again. “I understand from your fiancé that he didn’t stay very long. Isn’t that rather unusual considering that it was your birthday party?”
“Bruno’s very much a law unto himself,” she said calmly.
Mary Beresford came in under full sail. “Oh, for heaven’s sake tell the truth about him for once, Joanna. He didn’t stay long because he was asked to leave.”
“And why was that?”
“I should have thought it sufficiently obvious. You were here—you saw what happened. He picked that little tart up in a saloon bar and brought her here with the deliberate intention of ruining the party for everyone.”
“Aunt Mary—please,” Joanna said.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” The old woman’s eyes glittered fiercely. “He arrived dressed like a tramp as usual and with twenty minutes was trying to break the place up.”
Miller turned enquiringly. Jack Morgan picked up the two halves of the wooden chopping block that lay on the bar. “Bruno’s latest parlour trick.”
“Karate?”
“That’s right. Imagine what a blow like that would do to somebody’s jaw.”
A brown belt who was soon to face re-grading to first Dan, Miller could have told him in detail. Instead he looked at Marlowe speculatively. “That bruise on your face—did he do that?”
“Look here,” Marlowe said angrily. “I don’t know what all this is leading up to, but if you think I’m laying a complaint against him you’re mistaken. There was a rather undignified squabble—there usually is when Bruno’s around. Nothing more.”
