by John Creasey
Eddie often talked like a fool and looked like a fool, but in fact he was shrewd; and just now, probing.
“Well, I owe him plenty,” Roger said.
“That’s the thing that’s done him more good than anything else,” said Eddie. “He didn’t tell anyone what he did, just waited for others to tell it.”
“You haven’t a mean and uncharitable spirit, Eddie, have you?”
“Just between you and me,” Eddie Day said earnestly, “I don’t like Warren Turnbull now any more than I did before, but there’s no doubt he’s getting round a lot of people. I don’t quite know what he’s up to, but it’s something. P’raps it’s just cashing in on prestige.” Eddie’s lips curled. “Still, you’ve got to hand it to ’im, ’Andsome, ’e was right there with Millsom, from the word go. Funny chap. Uncanny, in a way; he’s done that several times now.”
“Done what?”
“Put a finger on the murderer from the word go and been right,” explained Eddie, and then the telephone on his desk rang.
He swivelled round to answer it, and Roger sat at his desk. It wasn’t piled up with papers, for other Chief Inspectors had taken over most of his work. There were several reports on cases which had been cleared up, others on arrests made and charges pending. All was familiar routine. Crime was like the weather, there was always some kind of it.
There was also a thick file on the Gelibrand case, with full reports on the Coroner’s inquest of both pretty Betty and Harold Millsom. Roger read these closely.
Then there was a note from Records, too. ‘Still holding that stuff on Hilda Shaw.’
Roger went along to the Records office, throwing, “Fine, thanks,” right and left as he walked. The morning should see this manifestation of good will over.
He found the Inspector in Charge out, but Hilda Shaw’s dossier was waiting. He took it back to his office, and read it through. Everything was identical with Betty Gelibrand’s murder, and there was one totally unexpected thing. She had won a Beauty Competition only a few weeks before her death. This made him uneasy, but didn’t really help.
At half-past ten, Chatworth sent for him.
“Glad to see you back,” Chatworth said, looking up from his desk as Roger entered. “All right now? … Good! Don’t overdo it, the first few days. Now, about Turnbull—sit down, man, sit down!—did he go up to that roof against your orders?”
Chatworth had a genius for slinging the unexpected question; Roger a genius for dealing with him.
He smiled amiably.
“He was on the spot and in charge, and had to make the decisions. It’s a good job for me he was up there.”
“If he hadn’t been it might never have happened,” Chatworth remarked dryly. “Roger, all in confidence, of course—is he good enough for promotion yet?”
“He’s very good indeed.”
“But what?”
“I haven’t worked with him very often, sir. What I’ve seen is first rate. He’s a bit impetuous, perhaps, but he knows his own mind and isn’t afraid to back himself.”
“I’m asking whether he’s good enough.” Chatworth was now gruff.
Roger smoothed down his corn-coloured hair. He wished the question hadn’t been forced, but there was no evading it now. Still, he waited. Outside, the rain still smashed at the window, and a desk light was on at Chatworth’s desk.
“I should say that Turnbull is very good indeed, sir, with more experience he’ll probably be brilliant. I’d rather like to see …” He paused.
Chatworth rumbled, “Go on, go on.”
“I’d like to see what he’d do if a couple of cases went sour on him,” Roger finished. “I’d be able to judge better if I saw how he reacted.”
“H’m, that’s a thought. Thanks. Had time to go through the Gelibrand business?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Satisfied?”
“No.”
Chatworth was so surprised that he sat up abruptly, and light from the top of the lamp shone just beneath his chin, making strange shadows of his face.
“Why the blazes not?”
“There was another job …” Roger talked, briefly, quietly, and knew that Chatworth was listening intently.
As he described the position in which Hilda Shaw’s body had been found and showed the similarities between the two murders, his earlier doubts were strengthened. Chatworth was impressed, too. He forgot to light his cheroot when it went out; and he pondered for several minutes before making any comment. Then: “I see what you mean. And if the same man killed Hilda Shaw and Betty Gelibrand, both Beauty Queens, we can’t assume it was Harold Millsom.”
“Not until we’ve made sure whether Millsom knew Hilda Shaw, knew the Tottenham district, all that kind of thing,” Roger said. “I’d like to talk to the Division over there and make a few discreet inquiries.”
“You mean, without telling Turnbull?”
“Without telling anyone.”
“All right, go ahead,” said Chatworth. “I’ve made some plans for you, and this will fit in nicely. I’d like you to check our liaison with the Divisions, make sure that all of them are happy about the way we’re dealing with them!” He gave a quick smile, startlingly sunny, and his face became astonishingly like a baby’s for a few seconds. “I like to keep everyone happy, and this will give you a few days to acclimatise yourself.”
“Fine,” said Roger, and meant it. “Thanks, sir.”
“Let’s know how things go,” said Chatworth.
Roger went out, feeling happier; at least he could give himself his head, and during the coming week he should get some idea whether he was justified in thinking that the two murders had been committed by the same man, and if that man were Millsom. If it weren’t, if the killer of two girls was still loose, there were going to be breakers ahead. It was possible to feel almost sure that Millsom had killed Betty Gelibrand – if he hadn’t, why had he run away, and why had he killed himself?
No guess was wholly satisfying.
Roger decided to get someone at MK to find out if Harold Millsom had any association with Tottenham. They’d keep it quiet if he asked them to.
Then he would see Millsom’s father.
He was about to leave for Chelsea and the church when the office door opened and Turnbull came in. Until that moment, the office had been just a room with five desks, lights over three of them, and rain still tapping at the window but without the venom of earlier morning. Now, all that changed. Turnbull strode in, affecting everyone there; all of them turned to glance at him. He had a disturbing influence, and knew exactly how to make an entrance.
He saw Roger, and his eyes lit up.
“Why, hallo, Handsome, damned glad you’re back!” He came striding over, hand outstretched; he had a powerful grip. “At least you’ve a pretty clear desk, crime’s been on the down-and-down for the past fortnight!” He grinned. “That won’t last. Satisfied about Millsom?”
“Ugly business altogether,” Roger said.
“Only pity was we didn’t have him to hang,” said Turnbull. “Well, happy convalescence! I want a word with our so-called forgery expert!” He swung across to Eddie Day, magnificently free of movement; a leopard of a man.
Roger looked at his broad shoulders and burnished head, then rubbed his chin and went out.
The Reverend Charles Millsom, Vicar of St. Cleo’s, was standing by French windows which opened on to a small, neat lawn, a brick-walled garden with one herbaceous border still bright and colourful although the rain had beaten down the taller Sowers and small shrubs, and made the leaves glisten. Now the sun was breaking through the heavy clouds, and shone on the vicar’s greying hair, his pleasant face. Much of the hurt had healed, or else he had forced it away inside him, so that no one else could see.
“Good morning, Chief Insp
ector.” They shook hands. “I hoped that everything was finished.”
Roger said, “Did you?” in a way which made the other man’s eyes narrow questioningly. “All over and forgotten, is that the way you want it?”
Millsom said slowly, “I don’t quite understand you. It’s better forgotten. Nothing I can say can move Scotland Yard or coroners, can it? I am quite sure that my son did not kill the girl, but what else is there for me to do?”
Roger moved to the window.
“May I smoke?” He lit up when Millsom refused a cigarette. “Not my job to try to teach you your business,” he said, “but what does ‘quite sure’ mean? A hunch? Blind faith? Or have you any evidence?”
Millsom was standing very still, dressed in the grey suit that was almost black, and the sheer white collar, the pale face with eyes which had suddenly begun to spark.
“What is in your mind, Chief Inspector?”
“There’s always the same thing on my mind,” Roger said. “A need for facts—a thirst for facts. At Scotland Yard we live by them, can build cases on them, can hang men on them. It might interest you to know we can also prove innocence by them, and that gives most of us a lot more pleasure than proving guilt. Like all of us at the Yard, I’m interested in getting justice for the living and the dead—if they come within my orbit.” He had hardly touched his cigarette. “Do you know that your son didn’t kill Betty Gelibrand, or are you just guessing and being sentimental?”
He felt that he was almost as brutal as Turnbull.
He believed that his tactics were right.
“I’m not absolutely sure,” Millsom answered very slowly, “but I think I can offer you some evidence that he didn’t kill her.” His voice was so low that Roger hardly heard the words. “I talked to—to the other Inspector, Turnbull I didn’t dream from what he said that anyone would listen to me.”
“Didn’t you?” said Roger; he could picture Turnbull’s sneering face. “What’s the evidence, Mr. Millsom?”
“I think my son was here at the time that the girl died,” Millsom said.
Chapter Seven
More Beauty
Roger left St. Cleo’s, an hour later, with plenty more to think about. Millsom had no evidence that his son had been in the vicarage at the time of the murder; but Harold Millsom had called to see him that night, had been very distressed, talked of leaving the country, and even, in a wild moment, of killing himself.
It wasn’t until after the inquest that Millsom had realised that he could offer something approaching an alibi for his son! After the disheartening interview with Turnbull, he had made no further effort, believing it would be fruitless, and perhaps do more harm than good, in spite of the facts.
Harold Millsom had been waiting at the vicarage when his father had returned from a parochial meeting, a little after eleven o’clock on the night of the murder. Harold hadn’t said what time he had arrived, and had let himself in with a key which he’d taken from under a stone – knowing that for years a key had been left there. No one else had been at the vicarage that evening.
“Just what was his manner like?” Roger had asked.
“He was very agitated indeed,” the clergyman had replied quietly. “Obviously in great distress of mind.”
“Did he talk about Betty Gelibrand?”
“No.”
“Did he give you any idea why he was so distressed?”
“I gathered it was a love affair which had gone badly wrong.”
“And you put his behaviour down to a kind of hysteria because of his disappointment?”
“Yes.”
“How long did he stay?”
“He went up to his room. I expected him to stay the night. The bed was slept in, but he was gone before daybreak. I didn’t see him again,” the clergyman had added very quietly.
Roger hadn’t worried him much more.
Now Roger drove to the Chelsea Divisional H.Q., and saw the benevolent-looking Superintendent who had led him into the church. He was a grey-haired man with a quiff, a big jowl, and a very florid complexion; a jolly sailor of a man.
He was brisk and amiable, too.
“Yes, Teddy, I’m better, I can walk, and my shoulder will stand any normal strain, thanks very much!”
“You haven’t changed, either. What’s this, a ceremonial visit? I’m told that Chatworth wants a lion and a lamb job—hopes to improve Yard and Divisional good will.”
Roger chuckled.
“He doesn’t know what a hopeless job he’s got with the Divisions. Stubborn lot of no-good know-alls.”
“You wouldn’t be mixing us up with Turnbull, would you?”
“Let’s forget it,” Roger surrendered. “Teddy, will you find out if a man was seen to enter St. Cleo’s vicarage the night before young Millsom died? Somewhere between seven o’clock and eleven.”
“What’s this? Not satisfied?” The Divisional man was first surprised, then obviously sceptical. “I don’t think—”
“Just checking,” Roger said. “Will you fix it?”
“Oh, all right.”
“Keep it quiet, too. What happened up on the roof of St. Cleo’s after the fuss had died down, by the way? Turnbull’s report says everything except that.”
“Wasn’t much left to happen, was there?” asked the Divisional man. “Turnbull and I went up and had a look round. Then my chaps took some pictures. I can’t say there was much to see. Millsom took the gun with him, the only thing that ever puzzled me was why he took a potshot at you and then threw his hand in. If he were in a killing mood you’d think it would last longer than that, wouldn’t you?”
“Much longer. No one saw him jump, according to the report, but presumably you saw the spot he jumped from?”
“Well, yes—more or less. Photographed it too. Handsome, what’s on your mind?”
“Did you go through the roof, inside and outside, to check everything and make sure that Millsom was alone?”
The Divisional man just didn’t answer. He was standing by his cluttered desk, then suddenly dropped into a chair as if his legs wouldn’t support him any longer. He groped for his pipe, obviously seeking some solace.
“I don’t think I ever did like you,” he growled. “No, we didn’t. Come to think, we were damned casual about it. But I didn’t even give a thought to the possibility—oh, go jump on yourself! You’re fooling.”
“Cross my heart, I mean it,” Roger grinned. “Mind if I look at the photographs?” The other man handed over a set, and Roger sat on a corner of the desk looking at them. Outside the sun shone brightly now, and traffic was far enough away for its noise not to matter. “Did you hear the gun hit the ground?”
“Er—no.”
“It was lying on the grass, wasn’t it?”
“So no one would hear it—the thud of the body would drown the sound, anyhow,” argued the Divisional man.
Roger said, “Look,” and held out two photographs. There were X’s to mark the spots; outlines of gravestones, of the grass of the churchyard, of the pavement – everything visible from the scaffolding; the usual routine had been done. “Body on the actual path, there, gun on the grass five or six yards away. Yards, mind you. If he had the gun in his hand when he jumped the gun would probably drop somewhere between the spot where he fell and the wall of the church. He’d let go of the gun, wouldn’t throw it, would he? According to this it’s a long way off, nearer the gate. Don’t say it could have bounced—there’s the indention of the spot where it hit the grass, and it wouldn’t have made such a mark if it hadn’t fallen from a height. If we’re to believe that evidence, Millsom threw the gun first, then jumped. Think so?”
“Why—why should he?”
“That’s what’s worrying me. Now look at these,” Roger said. They were close-up photographs of the
steel scaffolding. “And these.” He showed two photographs of the smashed body on the pavement. “Leather shoes, as we know from the inventory, with steel tips at toes and heels. If we believe just what we’re expected to, he walked along that scaffolding and threw himself over—and steel didn’t make a mark on the steel. You’d think there would be scratches somewhere, wouldn’t you, even if he actually balanced himself on the middle of his shoes before jumping.”
The Divisional man said thinly: “You uncanny beggar.”
“Nothing uncanny about it, just the facts speaking for themselves,” said Roger mildly. “I could be way off beam, too—he might have jumped from another spot, but there was only this one steel scaffolding platform immediately above the place where he fell, so for our purpose we can assume he actually stood here. Well, why? There were wooden planks, making platforms at several spots. Why didn’t he walk along one of those? Why walk along tubular steel, which is awkward going for anyone not used to them? You know, I think we’ll have the body exhumed.”
“What?”
“It might be as well to find out for sure how he died,” Roger murmured. “The injuries were so bad and the thing was so obvious that there might have been an oversight. Who did the p.m.?”
“Maddock.”
“He’ll love me for life after this,” said Roger with a grimace, “especially if he finds anything he missed the first time. Millsom’s buried in Chelsea, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Listen,” said Roger, “will you fix the exhumation, without bringing me into it, and keep it as quiet as you can?”
“Who’s scaring you?” demanded the Divisional man. “Surely not Turnbull.”
“I’d like to keep him off this for a bit.”
“You’ll have the Press on it like wolves,” the other said.
Certainly they wouldn’t be able to keep the news of an exhumation quiet for long. The Division would have to apply for an order, and the Press would soon get the news, but if the job was done quickly, Roger would see the result of the second examination of the body before anyone tumbled to what was happening. Maddock was a good pathologist, and wouldn’t take any risks of making the same mistake twice.
