by John Creasey
“Get on to every angle,” Roger ordered; “don’t let anything slip.”
He had been at the desk most of the day, co-ordinating, thinking, stream-lining, bursting to go out and to question Talbot and the girl, but unable to get away. Then there came the late-afternoon lull. Quickly, he put on his coat and straightened his collar and tie and drove to Regina Howard’s place, taking matter-of-fact Sergeant Dalby with him.
Derek Talbot was at Regina’s flat.
Roger sensed the tough streak in Talbot within a few seconds of greeting. This man would deceive a lot of people. Over-long hair, a slight perfume, exquisite clothes, beautifully kept nails coated with a plain varnish, delicate skin – but underneath it all, something that was very close to steel.
He was in the small living-room, with Regina. Mrs. Howard wasn’t there.
Regina looked a tired beauty.
“Oh, not another” she said, when Roger introduced him self, and Talbot gave an approving, sardonic smile. Then she closed her eyes, and when she spoke again it was rather more calmly. “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but it’s been nothing but police and newspapermen all day, first here, then the office, now here again. And I’m afraid—”
She broke off.
“Of what, Miss Howard?” Roger was very matter of fact, and Talbot’s lips curved in something not far from a sneer.
“I don’t want my mother to be worried,” Regina said firmly. “She knows that something’s wrong, but doesn’t yet know what it is. She’s with friends along the street just now. I don’t know whether it’s any use, but I’d like to keep it from her.”
Roger was still flat-voiced.
“Why?”
“My dear man,” Talbot began, superciliously.
“Derek, please.” Regina wouldn’t let him finish. “She’s just not well. I know the shock wouldn’t kill her, but it might make her worse. And if she thought that I might be in danger, I don’t know what she’d do.”
“Do you seriously think you can keep this from her?”
“Of course she can, police permitting,” Talbot put in.
The girl looked at him, saying silently: “Please, Derek.”
“We won’t stop you trying,” Roger said briskly. “Now, Miss Howard, I’d like to ask you a few questions in private, please.” He waited until Talbot had gone out of the room, showing great reluctance, and Dalby was ready with his pencil and notebook. “How well did you know Wilfrid Dickerson?”
“I knew him—quite well,” Regina said.
“How long have you known him?”
“For about ten years.”
“As long as that?” The answer startled Roger. “You didn’t first meet him through the Competition, then?”
“Oh, no,” said Regina. “No, he was a friend of my father, and met mother again about ten years ago. He was often a visitor here. It was he who first introduced me to Mr. Talbot and Mr. Osborn. He was most anxious for me to enter the Competition, too.”
“Why?” Roger asked flatly.
Her answer seemed quite frank.
“He knows that I can’t really afford to live at home—in fact, I’ve this office job now—but he would like me to be free to help mother. He—he’s very fond of her.”
Roger let it go at that for the time being.
“Did everyone connected with the firm know that you were friendly with the Competition officials?”
“There’s no reason why they shouldn’t,” Regina answered sharply. “The judges are quite independent.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I’ve seen the newspapers, but to think that Wilf Dickerson would attack me—” She gave a funny little laugh. “Even if it were possible that he would attack the others, I just can’t believe he would harm me.”
“Why not?”
“He’s been such a good friend.”
“Affectionately?”
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“It’s become pretty clear that Mr. Talbot and Mr. Osborn are affectionately disposed,” Roger said, and smiled faintly. “Was Mr. Dickerson a third string?”
Something in the way he said that made her laugh unexpectedly.
“Gracious, no!”
“Sure?”
“I don’t believe—” began Regina, and then stopped.
She closed her eyes again, and then sat down rather heavily. “Oh, I can’t be sure of anything,” she said helplessly. “But I don’t think that Wilfrid thought of me as anything but—”
She opened her eyes at their lovely widest and brightest. “This sounds so hackneyed, but you’ll know what I mean. I think he had a paternal interest only.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“How can I be?”
She seemed like an honest witness, and that was important. She also seemed genuinely worried. Roger switched the subject to the other two men. Obviously she wasn’t happy about their relationship. She was uneasy about what had happened at the restaurant, tried to make light of it, but admitted that if it hadn’t been for Mark Osborn’s swift action, it would have been very unpleasant.
“Miss Howard,” Roger said with a sudden switch, “did you get the impression that Mr. Dickerson is abnormally interested in you winning the big prize in the finals?”
“He—he would like me to.”
“Is he very keen?”
“He—” she hesitated.
“Surely you can answer this one,” Roger urged. “I don’t want to keep you too long. Your mother may return, and she’ll wonder what this is about.”
“Yes,” Regina said quietly. “Wilfrid seemed to have set his heart on it. I wanted” – she gave an odd little laugh – “I wanted to withdraw.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’d hate to think favouritism—I mean, I’d hate to think that anyone could put down any success I had to favouritism.” She coloured up. “As I’ve said it’s fair enough.”
“No film ambitions?” Roger asked, and that seemed to help her.
“And I’m not stage-struck, either!”
Roger grinned.
“It’s nice to know we understand each other. What about the others—Mr. Osborn and Mr. Talbot? Were they anxious for you to win?”
“Well—I suppose so.”
“One more than the other?”
“I can’t see why you’re asking all these questions,” Regina’s voice sharpened again. “What’s the point of it? If someone were trying to kill all the others off so as to give—to give me a clear run—” She broke off, caught her breath, and then cried, “No, it’s too fantastic!”
“I hope it is,” Roger said. “We—”
“But even if it were true, and it can’t be true,” Regina cried almost wildly, “why did they attack me? Does that make any sense?”
“Not yet,” Roger conceded, “but we may find some in it yet. Did—perhaps I should say does—either Mr. Talbot or Mr. Osborn want you to win more than the other?”
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you.” Regina gave way reluctantly. “Mark doesn’t care very much, but Derek’s very keen. It still doesn’t make any sense. I—”
She broke off.
There was a sound at the front door, and she moved towards it quickly, her grace and her speed alike surprising Roger. He didn’t try to stop her, but watched. The door had opened to admit a small, thin woman in a grey skirt, who came in very slowly. Roger saw the astonishing beauty of one side of her face; and the mask of the other.
“Mother!” cried Regina.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Mrs. Howard said, and Roger felt the tension in her voice. “I shall be all right when I’ve got over the shock. I’ve seen the Evening Globe, and your picture’s in it. And—and Wilfrid’s.”
She swayed; if Regina hadn’t been
there, she would have fallen.
Chapter Thirteen
Fear
Derek Talbot stood in the doorway, head on one side, half-sneering. The impression of steely strength was very strong, so was the evidence of moral courage j yet behind the smile, the suaveness, and the hinted insults, there was something else.
Was it fear?
Regina was in the bedroom with her mother.
“It must be nice being a policeman,” Talbot said. “Tearing the private lives of other people into little pieces. Don’t you get fun?”
“When we start tearing up the private lives of other people, we do it because we have to, not because we like it,” Roger said. “But we do it. You might think it worth reflection that we didn’t talk to Mrs. Howard—the Press and neighbours did that.”
“Remote control,” gibed Talbot.
He looked, spoke, and acted as if he wanted to antagonise Roger; and it would be easy to get tough. But not wise. There was one real enemy, the murderer, and whether they liked it or not, all the rest could be used to help to find out who it was. So Roger said mildly, “Please yourself, we do all we can. How well do you know Dickerson?”
“Our Wilf? Very well. He is the kind of man who won’t kill a fly or tread on an ant if he can help it. The dull but kindly type. Generous, too. Just so that you won’t jump for joy when you discover it, he’s lent me seven hundred and thirteen pounds ten shillings during the past eighteen months or so, so if I bumped him off I wouldn’t have to pay it back, would I? It’s just between the two of us.”
So Talbot was hard up.
“Have you noticed anything particular about his attitude to the Competition winners?”
“Yes,” said Talbot promptly. “Avuncular, not to say paternal solicitude. Marvellous chap, our Wilf—either nerves of steel or blood like soap and water. He can weave around these pretties, and believe me they are pretties, and take measurements, size ’em up when—my goodness, that big chap who calls himself a Detective Inspector would cause a riot! He’d have the brazenest hussy screeching for a new age of chivalry. But Wilf is the perfect impersonal measure-upper. Better than another woman, because the girls would probably think she was being jealous, and curbing the curves. You could rely on our Wilf for both immaculate honesty and behaviour. He would point a finger at a beauteous bosom and ask if it were enhanced by artificial aid with a voice as dry as cornflakes without milk. And did he spot ’em! Come to think,” added Talbot, screwing up his nose, “he was unerring. Never a falsy passed the eagle eye of Father Wilf.”
He stopped, took out a cigarette case, and unbent far enough to offer it.
“Virginian,” he said. “I find Turkish offensive, although you wouldn’t think so to look at me, would you?”
In the right mood, he could be likeable; and he seemed to dislike Turnbull, making sure that all his digs went home.
“Thanks,” Roger said. They lit up. “Does Dickerson show any favouritism towards any one of the competitors?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Regina, our Regina.”
“Are you sure?”
“He loves her as a daughter. Undoubtedly he wishes she was, for he loves her mother. One day in his cups, and that is rare, he told me that he’d been a rejected suitor of Mrs. Howard when she was at her beautiful best. But, being Wilf, he admitted that the best man won her. As Mrs. Howard was not for him, he fusses over Regina like the Sultan’s harem mistress of the days of good King Neb. His eyes and behaviour are coldly fishlike towards every other charmer, but not towards Regina. I hope,” went on Talbot, very deliberately, “that you understand that I am doing my best to be honest. Your natural charm has overcome my natural dislike of policemen, especially copper-headed cops.”
Roger grinned suddenly, broad, a man-to-man grin.
“You’ve a rod in pickle for Turnbull, haven’t you?”
“I have. I don’t like his manner. He was at the office this afternoon, and I did not like the way he talked to Regina. In case there is the slightest doubt in your mind, I am devoted to Regina. I wish to marry her. I am a peculiar person, no doubt, and absurdly jealous. As you have doubtless learned after my exhibition of appalling bad manners and weak-mindedness last night. You see what love will do to a man. Not only did I dislike the way in which your Mr. Turnbull talked to my Miss Regina,” went on Talbot, very gently, “but I greatly resented the way he looked at her. That isn’t an indictable offence, but it might lead to one. Because,” went on Talbot in the same soft tone, “I shall undoubtedly assault him if he looks at Regina in the same lascivious way again. Have I made myself clear?”
Roger said easily, “You’re reading too much into it.”
“You have been warned.”
“Thanks. We were talking about Dickerson. Are you sure that he showed no favouritism towards anyone else?”
“As sure as I am that he wouldn’t attack Regina,” Talbot said.
Roger learned nothing else from him; nothing else from Regina Howard. He gathered that Mrs. Howard was all right, now, and lying down; her chief trouble was an obscure disease of the heart, Talbot inferred, which might catch up on her at any time. No one put it into words, but Mrs. Howard was obviously living precipitously between life and death. She’d had one bad shock; she might succumb to another. That would explain much of Regina’s anxieties, and also made it tough.
Roger left, with a feeling of liking for Derek Talbot, uneasy about Turnbull – who hadn’t reported for duty, but had gone straight to Conway’s offices. Turnbull was going to come a cropper before long. It was easy to understand what Talbot meant, too; the way Turnbull looked at women was likely to cause a lot of trouble.
You couldn’t talk to a man about the way he looked.
The story of Dickerson’s abortive love for Mrs. Howard was a factor to be remembered.
Roger went to Mark Osborn’s service flat, in St. John’s Wood. Osborn was in, and said much the same as Talbot had about Dickerson. He showed his anxiety more clearly, and there was the story of his fears the night before when Regina had talked to him. There was also the way he had attacked Talbot, and squeezed out of an awkward situation; the man of action who didn’t like waiting, didn’t like suspense. There was uneasiness in his grey eyes.
He seemed to be answering frankly.
When Roger had finished, Osborn said in an edgy voice, “Now let me ask you a few questions. Do you know who’s behind all this?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you seriously think it’s Wilf Dickerson?”
“When we’ve had a chance to talk to him, I’ll know more about that.”
“I can’t understand what’s happened to him,” Osborn muttered; then squared his shoulders, hesitated, and burst out, “Do you think Regina’s in danger?” He gripped Roger’s arm tightly. “Are you looking after her properly?”
“We’ll look after her.”
“You’d better,” Osborn said abruptly. “If you let anything happen to Regina—” He broke off. “And what about the others?” His voice became hard and aggressive. “I mean the other Queens. What about them?”
“We’re looking after them, too,” Roger assured him.
He left, convinced that fear lay deep in Osborn’s mind. It was laying its clammy hand on everyone. Why? Were there things in the past life of the two men which they didn’t want uncovered? What had Talbot been getting at when he had talked about breaking up private lives? Was he fearful of what the police might find about him?
The Yard was probing deeply into his past; Osborn’s; Dickerson’s; Regina Howard’s and her mother’s – and the Divisions were looking after the other three surviving Queens. When one thought of it like that, and realised that only four out of seven winners were alive, it hurt like the kick of a horse. There were the other district winners to come – if
Conway’s went on with the show. If circumstances made them suspend the heats it would be a heavy blow to the Yard’s prestige.
Roger put that worry out of his mind, and concentrated on Turnbull. Turnbull was simply keeping up with his job. Wasn’t he? If a man could be blamed for working when he was officially off duty and when he was tired, then he, Roger, would have been thrown out of the Force years ago.
He went back to the Yard, but Turnbull wasn’t there. He’d left a message in a sealed envelope, safe from prying eyes. Roger opened it.
Turnbull had discovered that Dickerson was an old suitor of Mrs. Howard; that he had worked his way back into her life after the accident in which her husband was killed. He’d found out that Dickerson was always helping Regina, and believed that was to win favour with the older woman.
Yes, Turnbull was good.
It was a reporter on the Globe who told Roger – quite casually and without knowing that it was news – that Turnbull and Regina Howard had lunch together that day.
There were also plenty of reports from the Division; and one word seemed to run through them all, the ugly word – fear.
The other three Queens were undoubtedly badly frightened, and not without cause. The headlines of the newspapers screeched at them; three Queens were dead, savagely murdered – who goes next? ran the refrain. The Press could feed the thirst of a nation for sensation only at the cost of hurting a few – and how they hurt and frightened this trio. Headlines spared them nothing:
BEAUTY QUEENS IN DANGER
BEAUTY QUEEN NUMBER 5 WALKS IN FEAR
WILL BEAUTY QUEEN KILLER STRIKE AGAIN?
SCOTLAND YARD BEWILDERED
So it went on; with the photographs of the girls and of Dickerson, and the hunt for Dickerson working up to a shrieking crescendo. The Yard had started it, the newspapers meant to keep it going at high pitch. The Globe offered a reward of £500. The Record gratuitously offered protection to each of the surviving Queens, without saying that each reporter-protector hoped to get a first-hand story of an attack. There was no rest from all this for three days – but there were no more attacks.
