by John Creasey
Unless something else happened, the hullaballoo would die down, and then danger would come again.
There was no new slant.
Dickerson wasn’t found.
Roger and Turnbull sifted the thousands of reports that came in about people who ‘looked’ like Dickerson from police stations and the public all over the country. Several false alarms came from the ports, too.
A variety of facts was gradually established.
Derek Talbot was in debt to everyone, from his tailor to his close friends. He had a salary of fifteen hundred a year, and spent money freely at the rate of nearly three thousand. So he was desperately hard up, and money mattered to him. Until a few months ago, he had spent most of his money on the gay life, his girl friends had been many and expensive. He had dropped these since he had fallen in love with Regina. There was no doubt at all; she obsessed him. Few days passed when he didn’t send her flowers, chocolates, or expensive gifts.
Mark Osborn wasn’t exactly wealthy, but was comfortably off. He lived on a thousand a year, and was able to save plenty. He had no known vices, no steady girl friends; he played cricket, tennis, and golf, and was no mean swimmer. Everything pointed to his feeling as great a love for Regina as Talbot.
Dickerson was comfortably off; there was no apparent reason why he should have lent Talbot so much money, and none why he shouldn’t.
More details were turned up about his association with the Howard family. Turnbull discovered an old friend of Dickerson’s who swore that when Mrs. Howard had married, Dickerson had been in desperate emotional straits. He had not seen her for many years, but had been among the first to offer practical sympathy after the accident.
Mrs. Howard hadn’t much money, and had been grateful for his friendship and the help he was always ready to give to Regina.
It was Regina to whom Dickerson seemed devoted now.
Much revolved around Regina …
But there were the other Queens.
“Looks to me as if Dickerson or the killer’s having a rest,” Turnbull said on the evening of the fourth day after the hunt had started for Dickerson. “We’ve probably scared him off, anyhow. With each of the Queens watched night and day, he hasn’t much chance of having another crack at ’em. May find it will all quieten down a bit now, Handsome.”
“We’ve still a murderer on our hands.”
“We’ll find him,” Turnbull said confidently. “There’s one Queen no one will do any harm to, I’ll see to that.”
By his silence, Roger implied that he knew that Turnbull had seen Regina Howard several times.
“Don’t you approve?” Turnbull growled, and when Roger didn’t answer, changed the subject abruptly. “Your kids all right?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Bet they wonder if they’re ever going to see you again,” Turnbull said. “That’s the trouble with night work and you married chaps. Ought to be single, like me. There’s a time and a place for everything.” He gave his big, wolfish grin, but it soon faded. “Tell you a thing that’s been on my mind.”
“Go ahead,” Roger said.
“Okay. Three beauties have been strangled. Then the devil had a go at Gina Howard, and we stopped him. If he wants to make a clean sweep, will he stick to strangling? In his place, I wouldn’t. I’d try something else, something unexpected. Say, poison.”
Roger said evenly, “Have you any reason to suspect poison?”
‘No, I’m guessing. But I can tell you that all the Queens get a monthly box of chocolates, as part of their prize. They’re sent from Conway’s. Easy way, wouldn’t it be?”
“Yes,” Roger agreed reluctantly. “Too easy.”
Turnbull had worried him; but it might be nothing more than the probing of a restless mind. There were too many things unknown. Where Dickerson was and why he’d run off. Why Millsom, if he hadn’t killed Betty Gelibrand, had run away – and hidden. How Dickerson had known where to find him.
Turnbull was going through some reports, Roger writing, when the telephone bell rang, and a moment later, for the first time for weeks, he put the Queens’ murder out of his mind. For this was Janet, a scared Janet.
“Roger, can you come home? It’s Richard—in fact it’s both of them, but Richard’s worse. He’s in agony, and I’m so scared.”
Roger felt the cold clutch of fear which came whenever danger threatened at home. And Turnbull’s talk of poison suddenly took on a new, dread meaning.
“I’ll be over at once,” he said. “Got the doctor?”
“Oh, yes, he’s with him now. First Richard was sick, then Scoop, but Scoop didn’t make much fuss. Richard—Oh! Did you hear that?”
The world had become a place of fear in a different way, for Roger had heard ‘that’: a scream of pain from Richard.
“Twenty minutes,” he said, and rang off.
“You forget everything, Handsome,” Turnbull said swiftly. “I’ll fix things here. I’ll tell the A.C., too. Just scramble.”
Roger said, “Thanks.”
He hurried out of the office. Everyone who could get in his way did so. Men who wanted to stay and have a chat gaped when he passed with a curt word. The great Chatworth himself was actually getting out of his car, and waved; and Roger shouted, “Sorry, sir, see Turnbull!”
He was at the wheel and on the way, taking the fast Embankment Road, within ten minutes of getting the message. But a swarm of traffic coming off Lambeth Bridge snarled him, and it was nearly half an hour before he reached Bell Street.
There the fear became starker, became something near horror, for an ambulance stood outside the house.
The front door was open.
Neighbours were watching.
Roger went in and called: “Janet!” and then heard voices upstairs and rushed up them three at a time.
Janet and the doctor, grey-haired, leathery-cheeked, blue-eyed Dr. James, were in the bathroom. An ambulance man and a nurse were in the boys’ bedroom.
Janet hadn’t a spot of colour in her cheeks.
“Take it easy, Mr. West,” Dr. James said. “It isn’t as bad as it might be, but your young men have been eating something that doesn’t agree with them. I’d rather have them in hospital under observation. Yes, Mrs. West, you can go and see they’re well looked after—of course you can go in the ambulance.” Janet squeezed Roger’s hand and hurried out, and Roger turned to follow, but the doctor said, “Half a minute, Mr. West.”
Roger turned, sharply.
“I don’t want to worry your wife too much,” Dr. James said, “but I want the stomach contents analysed quickly. We’ve had a lot of serious food-poisoning epidemics. Don’t want to take any chances.”
“I’ll fix the analysis,” Roger promised. He felt dreadful.
Chapter Fourteen
Poison Chocolates
There was a bowl in the bedroom, a stomach pump, the invariable sick-room smell. Dr. James, looking like an ogre, nodded confirmation of what he had said.
“They’ve eaten a lot of chocolates tonight—Richard especially—and I suppose it could have been in that. Anyhow, I’ve got the stomach contents. Don’t want to scare you, but the quicker you get on to a thing like this the better.”
“Yes,” Roger said. He had telephoned for a Squad car, and heard it arrive. He took the bowl downstairs and gave it to the Sergeant-driver, with precise instructions. Then he went back downstairs. His head ached, he couldn’t think clearly; whenever a crisis of this kind came he realised how taut his nerves were. “Thanks. Mind if I have a look at the boys?”
“Richard’s dopey, Martin’s not too bad,” the doctor said.
Scoopy looked wan; and Richard looked like death. Janet, the worst shock over, was competent, with a lot to do, night clothes to get ready, toilet bags to pack. Life had changed in a
matter of hours.
The boys were carried down to the ambulance. Neighbours clucked in sympathy.
And Janet talked all the time …
“They were perfectly all right when they got home, but they were late, it was nearly seven. I scolded them, they mustn’t stay late unless I know about it, and then I said they must go to bed early, as punishment. So I got their supper, and Scoop didn’t want much. That was unbelievable! Richard wouldn’t touch a thing, either. Apparently they’d been eating a lot of chocolate, and some sandwiches one of the other boys gave them. I think Richard spent all his pocket money on chocolates, I told you not to give him so much this week, you never will do what I tell you!”
“Did they say anything about it?”
“No.”
“Where are Richard’s clothes?” Roger asked, and Janet picked up Richard’s flannel trousers. Coins jingled in the pocket. Roger slid his fingers inside and drew out a two-shilling piece, two sixpences, and some coppers. “I gave him four shillings yesterday,” he said, “because I owed him two, so he’s spent sixpence at the most.”
“Well, he got the chocolate from somewhere,” Janet cried. Then her eyes filled with tears. “Darling, I’m sorry if I’m being beastly, but it was such a shock. I think I will go in the ambulance. Unless you—”
“You go,” Roger said quickly. “I’ll try to find out what they did eat. There may be other kids suffering from it, too. Food poisoning, probably.”
“Not from chocolate!”
“We don’t know that it was in the chocolate.” Roger walked with her to the door, and watched her get in beside the boys. Martin’s eyes flickered, and Roger said, “What did you eat, Scoop?”
The boy just looked at him, dazedly.
“Roger, don’t!” whispered Janet.
“Jan, listen. Make him tell you what they’ve eaten. It won’t do Scoopy any harm, and it might be very important. Try to find out.”
“We must be off now, sir,” an ambulance man said.
“Yes. Sorry. Jan, don’t forget.” Roger moved away, Janet and the boys were shut away from him. He went to the house. Two constables had come up, and asked if they could help; so did four neighbours. “No, thanks,” Roger said to them all, and went in and closed the door firmly.
He was alone.
He was at a taut stretch, and if anything went wrong with the boys he would crack. He knew it; parentage had its own secret terrors.
He fought the near ones off.
There were things which needed doing; he had to clear his mind of the emotions which the illness of the boys created; had to be dispassionate, had to study this as a policeman. The boys were suffering from poisoning, and they couldn’t have swallowed it more than three hours or so ago. So he had to trace every movement they’d made in the past four hours, say.
He’d need Divisional help.
He called the Chelsea Division, talked to the Superintendent in charge, knew that every man available there would be on the job. It was still daylight. He poured himself a drink, then had a snack in the kitchen, then heard a car draw up. He went to the front door.
Turnbull was striding up the garden path.
“Hallo, Handsome. How’re those kids of yours?” He sounded as if he were really anxious to know; and he looked it.
“Could be worse, I’m told.”
“Oh, good! They here?”
“Hospital.”
“Phee-oooh! Anxious times for the little woman,” Turnbull said. “Sure they’re all right? Been eating too much? Between you and me, I’d do a lot for that elder kid of yours, young Scoop; first time I’ve ever really wished I was married. Young Big Ears is quite a lad, too. Sure they’re all right?”
“They won’t die. They simply swallowed some poison.”
Turnbull just echoed, “Poison.” In a queer way, his reaction to that news was more affecting than anything he had said earlier. He looked genuinely shocked, and gave the impression that he was really interested in the boys.
The two Yard men stared at each other, without speaking, until Roger said, “Let’s have a drink—whisky or beer?”
“Whisky, thanks.”
They sipped whiskies and soda.
“But hell, how’d they get hold of it? They’re not infants who’d swallow anything they came across, some weed-killer say. Say, Handsome, no one would—”
He didn’t finish.
“Poison them,” Roger said. “I’ve been telling myself that’s crazy, too.”
As he spoke, a queer possibility entered his head; he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought before. To think that anyone deliberately set out to poison the boys was crazy – fantastic – far-fetched beyond all words. Like the Beauty Queen killer’s motive. Two things happened together, equally improbable, equally true.
“But damn it all—” Turnbull wasn’t really himself, was bewildered; a refreshingly human manifestation.
“Don’t like it,” Roger said. “Half a mo’.” He pushed past Turnbull and picked up the telephone. “I’m ringing the Yard,” he said as he dialled. Then: “Chief Inspectors’ room, please.” He looked at the other man. “We’ll play your hunch.”
Turnbull was puffing Turkish tobacco furiously. Roger wrinkled his nose.
“Hallo, Gibby, West here … Have all the Queens checked in a hurry, will you? There’s an outside chance that someone will try to feed them poison … Yes, I’ll hold on.” He kept the receiver at his ear and waved smoke away with his free hand. “Why don’t you stop smoking that foul stuff?”
“What’s Gibson want you to hold on for?”
“There’s a message in for me.”
“It’s a hell of a hunch. Could be, though—poison your kids, poison the Queens. A new form of attack. Look, Handsome—”
“Quiet! … Yes, Gibby … Sure?” Roger’s voice rose. “Oh, well, get the rest done at the double, will you? Yes, full statements from them all, make sure they don’t eat any of the damned stuff … Thanks, old chap.”
He rang off.
Turnbull was looking very pale; his eyes were glittering; and the cigarette was stubbed out in an ash-tray.
“Alice Harvey’s been taken to hospital with suspected arsenical poisoning, after eating chocolates sent through the post,” Roger said with great deliberation.
“My God!” gasped Turnbull; and added with hardly a pause, “I’m going to see Regina.”
He turned and raced out of the room.
Everything was in hand, there was no point in staying – except that Janet might come back, or might telephone. Roger moved to the hall and then into the front garden.
Turnbull was already in his car, the engine roaring; he didn’t look round.
A neighbour appeared on her porch. “Is there anything I can do, Roger?”
“Nellie, be a dear and sit-in in case Janet calls,” Roger said. “Or have her calls transferred to you—fix something, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” Roger smiled his thanks, hurried to the car, and started off three minutes after Turnbull. Now he had time to think of the effect of the news on the big man, and the way he had gasped: “I’m going to see Regina.” Not “Regina Howard,” but a burning, personal “Regina.”
Regina was a key, too; and Gibson would see that the other Queens were warned. It was better to go to the Howards’ flat than anywhere else.
Roger drove fast …
Two cars were outside Regina’s place, the street door was open, every light was on. Roger heard Turnbull’s voice, and an ominous, “What do you think, Doctor?” And after a pause, while a woman answered and Roger thought that Regina was the victim, Regina herself said, “Oh, thank goodness.”
Roger tapped at the door. Turnbull opened it, and spoke before Roger could ask a question.
Regina, looking huge-eyed, tired but so very lovely, was sitting down in an easy chair. Another woman, presumably the doctor, was in the living-room.
“Regina’s all right, but her mother ate some chocolates which came by post this morning,” Turnbull said. “Got the ruddy things, too.” He thumped on a box which stood on the table, then moved to Regina and squeezed her arm. “Wrapping paper’s salvaged, and it’s smothered with prints.” He gripped Roger’s arm next, and shepherded him out of the room, much as a wise old counsellor would draw an inexperienced youth to one side. “Let’s go straight to Derek Talbot,” he said, “he’s always sending her chocolates. Or I will—you have the chocolates and the paper tested. If Talbot hasn’t taken a run-out powder—”
“Take these things to the Yard, have them checked, and telephone me at Talbot’s flat,” Roger said, brusquely. “I’ll telephone Osborn from here and have him meet me. Then I’ll see Talbot.”
Turnbull hated it, but said stonily, “You’re the boss.”
“Both men hate your guts,” Roger said. “It’s a bad thing to make people hate you like that. They might lie to hide something, and they might lie to make a fool of you. Get a move on, Warren!”
It was the first time he had used ‘Warren.’ Turnbull picked it up in a flash.
“Oke,” he said, and hurried out.
Roger didn’t wait for him to drive off, but turned to the telephone, in the corner of the small hall. Regina Howard and the woman doctor were still talking. He didn’t try to hear what they said, but dialled the Yard again. He made sure that both Talbot and Osborn were being watched, and that reports had come in recently.
“Double the watch on each man,” he said.
“Right, sir. By the way, the laboratory’s wanting you to ring them.”
This would be the analyst’s report.
“Thanks. Put me through,” Roger said stonily.
He didn’t have long to wait. He listened for ten seconds and then began to feel ridiculously weak. The report made one thing clear; there was no arsenic trouble with the boys, simply a form of ptomaine poisoning. There was a message from the hospital, too; three other children from the Bell Street neighbourhood were down with food poisoning.
