by John Creasey
“No—no, of course not.”
“Thanks.” He took one, and as he did so a woman shouted from the passage: “But I heard a shot, I tell you!”
The big man turned and disappeared. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it penetrated to every corner.
“Less noise, please, there’s a sick woman in that room. Yes, ma’am, it was a shot, and we’ll have the gunman before the sun’s much higher. Be good enough to return to your flat and wait until we come for a statement, please.” He was commandingly dominant, and gave the impression that he knew that everyone would obey him.
Everyone did, including two police-constables who had arrived.
Regina listened …
She learned that the assailant had turned the nearest corner, towards a network of streets; it would have been a waste of time chasing him. She heard that the big man had already started a hunt with police patrol cars, and that one of the policemen had spoken to the Yard and also to his own Division. She got the impression that everything was completely under control.
The big man finished with everyone else, and turned to her.
“I don’t want to be a nuisance, Miss Howard, but my men will have to look for fingerprints and clues and things.” He grinned. “Mind?”
“I can’t, can I?”
“They won’t be long.” Turnbull gave instructions, and two men took their equipment into her room. “And I’ll have to ask you a few questions,” he went on. “Nonsensical, the way we police behave, isn’t it?” The grin came again. “How about a cup of tea while you’re telling me.”
A cup of tea was exactly what she needed.
“Oh, that’s a good idea! I’ll put a kettle on.”
He followed her into the kitchen. There was nothing furtive about it. A policeman was in the yard, looking for clues; another was at the front door. This man seemed to be in no hurry, and he perched himself on the corner of the big deal kitchen table, watching her with that open admiration, making her feel a little uneasy; self-conscious, perhaps. Yet he made himself so completely at home.
“Time I told you who I am,” he said. “Warren Turnbull, of the Yard.” He seemed to think that she would recognise the name at once; she did, but only vaguely; she couldn’t bring herself to say that.
“Oh, are you?”
“At your service,” said Turnbull. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Don’t tell me you didn’t know!”
“I—I’ve seen you about.”
“Know who I was?”
“I believed—you were a policeman.”
“Detective Inspector,” he corrected, with unmistakable emphasis. “Now just tell me what happened tonight, will you? I don’t mean just this past half-hour, I mean from the time you left here with Mark Osborn.”
So he knew about that.
She began to talk, and was quite sure that the only wise thing was to tell everything; so she did exactly that, omitting only the state of Mark’s nerves and the fact that Derek had become much more jumpy of late, and unpredictable. Warren Turnbull took notes, writing shorthand so swiftly that she found it hard to believe he would be able to read it back, but he didn’t seem perturbed.
She reached the moment when she had felt the stranger’s hands at her throat.
“Must have been bad,” said Turnbull. “Did you catch a glimpse of the swine?”
“Well—”
“Must be accurate,” he said brusquely. “You did or you didn’t, you know.”
That annoyed her, although she knew that the rebuke was half-deserved.
“I saw the man,” she said, “but I didn’t see his face. He wore something over it. I did see his eyes, but it was almost dark, and—”
“Dark clothes or light?”
“Dark—well, more dark than light.”
“Tall, short, medium?”
“Rather short, I should say.”
“Not bad at all,” said Turnbull genially; “anyone who can keep her eyes open and wits about her while being strangled has got something!” He stood up. “Thanks, Miss Howard; I don’t think I need worry you any more. There’ll be a guard back and front, of course, and from now on you’ll be followed wherever you go. Don’t try and shake off our men, will you?”
That annoyed her, too.
“Why do you imagine I would try?”
He gave that broad, bold grin again; it was almost a jeer.
“The age of romance isn’t dead yet, is it?”
When he had gone out, her cheeks were flaming and she felt hot with anger; she cooled very slowly. She had never been affected by anyone in the same way. The man as a man pushed what had happened into the background, she was obsessed by him and not by the attempt to murder her. It wasn’t until she was back in bed, lying down, that she began to feel the shock of that. She started to tremble. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep again, and got up and began to walk about Now and again she looked at the window and the alley. If Warren Turnbull hadn’t followed her, she would have been murdered. Could there have been any other result of the attack?
She would have been the fourth Beauty Queen to die.
Roger West kissed Janet lightly on the cheek, and then hurried along the garden path to his car. There, Martin was sitting at the wheel, giving the horn an occasional honk, and Richard was testing the springs, bouncing up and down on the seat next to the driver’s, and obviously trying to bounce high enough to hit the roof with his head.
“That’ll do, lunatics,” Roger said. “Over, Scoop, I’m in a hurry.”
Scoopy was already moving over.
“Mind me!” protested Richard.
“I didn’t touch you.”
“Oh, you did. Dad, he did. Tell him—”
“Settle your own quarrels, Fish,” Roger said, and started off at a pace which told them – and the watching Janet – that he was thinking of nothing so commonplace as his family.
Janet smiled to herself, Richard sulked a bit, Martin sat quite still.
The boys jumped out at the end of a street near their school, and joined a throng of others.
Roger put on speed to the Yard.
He had had a telephone call from a Night Duty Superintendent, and was anxious to know much more than that sketchy report. It gave the facts but not the details, and told him that Turnbull had taken everything into his own hands and had not thought it worth while calling him, Roger. No other man of lower rank with whom Roger had ever worked would have done that, on a case of this kind. Two with whom he had worked for years, Sloan and Peel, had recently gone to Divisions, with promotions; he missed them at times of high pressure.
He parked the car and positively scurried to his room – and then pulled up short.
“’Morning, Handsome,” greeted Turnbull.
He was in Roger’s chair again; at least he had the grace to stand up at once. Looking at him closely, Roger could see that his eyes were slightly bleary, although that was the only indication of tiredness. He seemed on top of the world as he tapped a broad forefinger on to a sheaf of papers.
“That’s the report of the night’s doings. Nothing much—no dabs or anything—it’s all there.”
“Thanks. I thought you’d be in bed—was told you’d reported just after six.” It was now a few minutes after nine o’clock.
“I had forty winks upstairs,” Turnbull said. “Thought I’d better bring you right up to date before getting some real shut-eye. It could be quite a day! I think you’ll find everything in there, but there are some things I ought to amplify.” Turnbull took out a gold cigarette case and put a cigarette to his lips. In self-defence, Roger lit a Virginian. “These chaps Derek Talbot and Mark Osborn want plenty of watching. They’re each ready to cut the other’s throat.”
“Over what?”
�
�Regina Howard. Mark Osborn took her to dinner at a cosy little spot near Paddington. Talbot must have known the restaurant; he turned up at a nearby pub soon afterward, got himself drunk, and then went in to fight Osborn. He lost.”
“Sure about all this?” Roger asked.
“Yep.” Turnbull didn’t allow a moment’s doubt. “Been dog-eat-dog for weeks. I’ve checked with a man at Pomerall’s and another at Conway’s. But Gina doesn’t seem to favour either. She might have a slight bias toward Mark, but Derek’s the boy with the little grey cells, so that makes it about even. I’ll tell you something else.”
“I’d like to know it,” Roger said, dryly.
“The man who attacked Regina could have been Derek Talbot. If he crouched a bit, he’d fit in for size. Knew the district, too. If we’d been watching them for the past few weeks we might know a thing or two. As it is, I’m having both men checked; if they were out during the early hours it’ll be worth knowing. Osborn delivered Talbot to his Mayfair flat about eleven o’clock, and stayed long enough to undress him and put him to bed. Then he drove off—that’s as far as I’ve got, except that he was certainly home at a quarter-past five.”
“How do you know that?”
“I telephoned him.”
“And Talbot?”
“I telephoned him, too,” Turnbull answered, “but I didn’t get any answer. Mind you, Derek Talbot was drunk the way that leaves the worst possible hangovers, he might have had so many noises in his head that he couldn’t tell a telephone bell from a fire alarm. Again, he might be one who sobers up fast.” Suddenly, Turnbull yawned, but didn’t apologise. “Who’d want to kill these Beauty Queens, Handsome?”
“That’s what we’re finding out,” Roger said. “Thanks for all this. Now go and get some sleep, you’ll probably be busy again tonight.”
“Not a bad idea, at that.” Turnbull yawned again. “Just a thought—Regina Howard’s really something. She’s the nearest thing to a certainty for that big prize. Takes after her mother, I’ve discovered—Mrs. H. was the sensation of the stage in her youth. Had an accident, lost her beauty, found it again in daughter Gina. If someone has a favourite and wants to make sure the favourite wins, then all competition—”
Roger just raised a hand, sharply.
“Still too far-fetched?” asked Turnbull, and shrugged his shoulders derisively. “Well, could be. But one murder in two wouldn’t be committed if the motive wasn’t far-fetched. You’d have to have someone with a twisted mind for this, but not insane, mind you. Just a one-track mind.”
“Like me,” Roger said. “You’re off duty.”
“Okay, sergeant,” Turnbull said, and strode out.
Roger waited until his footsteps faded along the passage, and then picked up the report. It was like the others from Turnbull – meticulous in detail, simply and effectively phrased. It was the kind of report that spelled accuracy, and was remarkable because a man who had been up all night had written it.
… the assailant turned right, into Beckington Way, which I knew to lead to seven different streets. I did not follow, therefore, but returned to the house and telephoned the office, put out a call for the man with a description. I then questioned Miss Howard, who was in some emotional distress, which she kept well under control. Her main anxiety was for her mother, who is suffering from a disease of the heart, which …
Roger finished the report.
The harder one looked, the more apparent it became that the Beauty Queens were victims of a campaign of violence. Why? Just because they were Beauty Queens, or because someone with a warped mind thought that by killing them off he could secure the prize for a girl whom he favoured?
It was a vague kind of premise, but had to be examined closely. The surviving Queens were important in two ways, now: one, because any one of them might be attacked; two, because any one of those who still survived might be the one whom a murderer favoured – for whom he was killing.
The next thing was to decide how to handle the newspapers. Roger wanted to see Chatworth about that, particularly because of Conway’s. Conway’s would probably screech that the notoriety was costing them a fortune, but that wouldn’t be true and their protest didn’t matter. But did the Yard want the Press to play the murders up too much? And if they didn’t, could it be stopped?
There were the three organisers to be questioned, too – Talbot, Osborn, and the older man, Dickerson. Once it was accepted that anyone with an interest in a Queen might be behind the murders, the net was spread very wide.
Roger sent instructions to the detective officers who were watching the three organisers, to make sure that all three were followed during the day, and proposed to question them in the evening. First, he meant to see Regina Howard. He wanted to check the story which she had told Turnbull, and he mustn’t lose sight of the fact that Turnbull might be biased by a pretty face. “Only ‘pretty’ wasn’t quite the word.”
He made sure, by telephone, that the girl was at the fashion agency offices, and was about to leave his room when the telephone rang. It was the man who had been sent to watch Wilfrid Dickerson.
Dickerson was missing from his home.
Very soon they discovered that Dickerson’s fingerprints had been on the roof and in the church of St. Cleo’s.
Chapter Twelve
A Man Named Dickerson
The Yard and the Divisions swung into action. They had a good man to hunt, a man photographed a hundred times in the Beauty Competitions, a smallish, lean fellow, rather diffident in manner according to all who knew him, balding, middle-aged, physically strong. People came forward quickly, almost tumbling over each other, with stories of the strength which Wilfrid Dickerson had in his hands; especially in his hands. He could tear a telephone directory across; he could bend iron bars; he could break thick pieces of wood. Allowing for all the exaggeration, Dickerson had the kind of hands a strangler might have.
Witnesses were eager to speak; no one appeared to like Dickerson.
He had very short, imbedded nails, from childhood biting – from adolescence biting, perhaps. The flesh grew out over the nails, and the picture was of flat-tipped fingers very smooth and fleshly – the kind of fingers Turnbull had given the murderer of Betty Gelibrand.
A wiry, well-preserved, physically fit man in early middle age, then, with a little nervous cough, a hoarse voice, pale features, rather small and sharp, and hooded blue eyes. Item by item the picture grew and was passed on to waiting police stations, and the call spread from London and the Home Counties to the Midlands, the West, and the North – West to Eire, then across the Channel to France and Belgium, across the North Sea to Holland and Scandinavia.
And the Press had to come in.
They published pictures of Dickerson and the old and trusty caption: ‘The man whom the police are anxious to interview in connection with the murder of Rose Alderson.’ Betty Gelibrand and Hilda Shaw weren’t mentioned, because the Press and the public already believed that their killer had been found. Or some of the Press did. The Globe’s midday edition carried headlines:
HUNT FOR BEAUTY QUEENS’ KILLER THREE STRANGLED
It burst on London, took possession of the front pages, caught the public imagination. It became a subject for casual conversation or hushed talk in train and bus, home and shop. ‘Isn’t it terrible?’ Pictures of the three dead girls appeared in the evening edition of the Globe – and also pictures of the living Queens; Regina Howard among them.
Roger hadn’t interviewed Regina yet.
He saw Mark Osborn, whose story seemed straightforward, who agreed that he was scared – for Regina. Turnbull was right again, Mark Osborn was certainly in love with the girl. Roger left Derek Talbot until the evening, because Talbot hadn’t gone to his office until late, and had then rushed off on some urgent Competition job.
There were the directors of Conway’s, tw
o pompous, one practical; they all agreed that it couldn’t be helped, pooh-poohed the suggestion that Dickerson, one of their employees, could be involved, promised all the help they could give, and gave the police a free hand at Bennis Place. Meanwhile, the Competition could be suspended if necessary. And: “Go where you like, do what you like, hrrmph! If there is a killer of these girls, find him.” That was the usual maddeningly condescending attitude of certain kinds of big businessmen. “We don’t want any more of this kind of publicity. Not doing us any good.”
“I’d like to see all the forms of publicity used for the Competition,” Roger said, woodenly.
It was extensive, but didn’t help him much. Yet he left with much respect for Conway’s publicity experts. He learned, for instance, how many tens of thousands of show cards, with pictures of the Queens, had been distributed – and were now being withdrawn.
“Can’t use them when a gel’s dead,” the managing director said. “Costing a small fortune. And trade’s falling. Do everything, won’t you?”
Roger said evenly: “I certainly want to stop the killer from killing again.”
“Oh, yes, harrumph, of course.”
“How long has Dickerson been with you?” Roger asked.
“Donkey’s years,” the managing director said. “Long before I joined the corporation. In fact, he’s a fixture. Was in a small way of business himself, and came in with us. Soap in his blood, you might say. Most loyal, steady servant. I can’t believe …”
Roger let him finish.
At last a fairly complete picture of Dickerson was formed. They had his history, which wasn’t remarkable. He was a widower, had been widowed for fifteen years, had no children, his hobby was collecting fashion plates, he had a magnificent collection going back to the sixteenth century. He was just a little ‘odd.’ He had a small flat in Bloomsbury, no one knew where he went when he went out, but he was often out in the evening.
