So Young, So Cold, So Fair

by John Creasey

  Roger moved away, and reached his own car. Two Yard men were searching the builders’ yard, but none of these spoke. Roger flicked on the radio again, and the Yard answered.

  “Anything on Osborn’s Bristol?”

  “He hired it from his usual garage, his M.G. had valve trouble. Flash just come in, sir, hold on …” There was a pause long enough for Talbot to come towards Roger and Turnbull to light a cigarette. “Hallo, sir … The car’s been seen on the Hog’s Back, near Guildford—that was at four twenty-five, sir. A man driving, girl passenger. The Surrey police are checking, also the Hampshire chaps. That’s all, sir.”

  “Good, thanks.” Another day, it might have been hours before they’d had a word, this was beginning to look good.

  Talbot burst out, “Any luck?”

  “Yes. You’d better come with me.” Turnbull heard that, and fumed in silent protest. “You follow, will you? We’re heading for Guildford; might pick up something else there or on the way.”

  “Right.” Turnbull was on the move at once.

  “Get in the back, Talbot, will you?” Roger got into his car. Dalby sat next to him. Talbot almost fell in and slammed the door.

  “Damned good of you, West.”

  “Just as well to keep you under my eye,” Roger said gruffly. He threaded his way across London to Hammersmith, and then had a clear run to Putney, the Heath, Roehampton, and the sweeping Kingston by-pass. There was little traffic on the six-lane highway stretches. Halfway along, Dalby picked up the radio phone, at a sign from Roger.

  “Speaking for Inspector West—”

  A disembodied voice came into the car.

  “Message waiting, sir, please hold on … Hallo, Chief Inspector West…. Grey Bristol car registration ALK 5143 found in a copse near Higley, Surrey—off Hog’s Back … Guildford patrol car waiting there to guide you.”

  “All clear,” Dalby said, and for once he couldn’t keep excitement out of his voice. “They’ve found him, sir!”

  From the back, Talbot, “West, I know the one about little boys. But if I’m right, Mark’s deadly. He could scar Regina’s mind for life, even if he didn’t do a thing to her, and he might kill—”

  He broke off.

  Roger said, “We’ll handle this as if we know he’ll try to kill. Just sit back, will you?”

  Talbot might be right, and Osborn might be the killer. If he was, if it was a case of a split mind, then there was no way of guessing what might happen now. If the man were Osborn and he had fired at Roger from the roof of St. Cleo’s he would probably be armed, and he would probably shoot again.

  Talbot couldn’t relax, just sat on the edge of his seat.

  Turnbull kept on Roger’s tail, pressing too close.

  They reached Higley at half-past six, had a brief word with the patrol-car men, and followed to the cottage and the copse where Mark Osborn had arrived with Regina nearly an hour and a half earlier.

  That much was known for certain. No one could be quite sure that the couple hadn’t left again, but the Bristol was still in the copse, hidden by trees and bushes. So the couple was probably inside the cottage.

  The police hadn’t shown themselves yet.

  “I’m going straight to the front door,” Roger said to Turnbull and the little group of Surrey policemen. “You make a ring round the place. Talbot, you stay back here, out of sight. If anyone’s likely to send Osborn off his head, you are.” He ignored Turnbull’s mumbled agreement. “All clear?”

  “Why should you go?” Turnbull demanded. “Why not let me—”

  “My job,” Roger said briefly. “You take the back door.”

  The men moved round, taking cover near bushes and behind a beech hedge. The sun burned down, and there was no cloud anywhere. The cottage lay in a dell, with a small oval lawn and an old-world garden in front of it, a blaze of colour. The paths were of grass, a little overgrown. No other building was in sight, except a few tiny outhouses. There were the country sounds and the quiet and a kind of lurking menace.

  Then Roger saw Osborn’s face at the window, and knew that Osborn realised that someone was there.

  Osborn stood by the window, with a gun in his right hand, his eyes narrowed, his lips parted so that he looked as if he were snarling. Regina, tied by the waist to a chair, was in a corner away from the window, where it was very gloomy. Creeper round the window kept much of the sunlight out, but there was sweat on Osborn’s forehead, and Regina felt unsufferably hot.

  “Mark, don’t do anything,” she pleaded; “whoever it is, don’t use that gun.”

  “I told you what I’d do,” Osborn said. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me. Understand, I’ll kill him. Now I’ve got you, at last I’ve got you.” He gave a sudden, shrill, frightening laugh. “It’s what I ought to have done months ago—just picked you up and carried you away! That’s how they used to behave in the old days, isn’t it?” He tore his glance away from the window and stared at her. “If you knew what you do to me, if you knew how your beauty hurts me—”

  “Mark, put that gun away. Don’t do anything silly.”

  “Silly?” He gave a different laugh, just a harsh bark. “Never been so sane in my life. Sane and sensible. I’ve got you away from them all—from the killer and from Derek. Do you know what I think? I think they’re one and the same. You didn’t think of that, did you? Derek’s the devil. I’m not surprised, I—”

  “Mark, be reasonable,” Regina pleaded. The sweat made her forehead, her cheeks, and her nose shiny, and every now and again she bit her lips, but she managed to keep her voice very steady. “Derek’s too fond of me—”

  “He’s followed you, that’s all!”

  “Well—well, perhaps you’re right,” Regina said, as if he had persuaded her. “But if you are, then we ought to tell the police. That’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “Think you can fool me, don’t you?” He stared out of the window, at the still branches of the trees and the glorious colours of the flowers and the off-green of the lawns, which badly needed water. “I’ve finished with the police, understand. I’m going to look after you myself, I’m the only one I can trust. I’ll show everyone I mean business.”

  He laughed again.

  Regina shivered, and felt hotter; choking.

  “Everyone knows how smart you are, Mark, but don’t make trouble for yourself. If you shoot—”

  He turned to face her. There was a strange light in his eyes, a light which seemed to burn. He shook his head very slowly. For a moment, he seemed to forget that there were men outside, watching, waiting their chance to come.

  “Even you don’t know what’s good for you,” he said. “Sometimes I think you’ve been deceiving me. Well, get this clear, Gina. I’ve got you. No one’s going to take you away from me. The killer, the police, that suave hypocrite Talbot, let ’em all come. Rather than let them have you, I’d kill you. Understand? I’d kill us both.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Then a sound broke the silent stillness, and he turned and saw Roger West coming through the garden gate.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Intent To Kill

  The gate closed behind Roger.

  Regina could not see outside, but she could see the way in which Osborn moved the gun upward, pointing it at someone out of the window. She could see his lips turned back, showing his teeth. She knew, now, that he wasn’t really himself, that nothing she could say would influence him. She’d made a dreadful mistake in coming with him, hoping to humour and to help him. Now he had the gun in his hand, and his mind was filled with intent to kill.

  The window was open at the top.

  If she screamed, she would warn and save the man outside, wouldn’t she? The footsteps drew nearer. Whoever it was came quite briskly, as if he had not the slightest idea that da
nger waited for him. He couldn’t be far away, now, and Mark was a good shot, Mark wouldn’t miss. He stood on one side so that he could see out but could not be seen, with the gun waist high.

  The footsteps drew nearer. The gun moved slowly, menacingly.

  “Be careful!” she screamed. “He’s armed, he’s armed!”

  She saw Osborn flinch at the first cry, next heard a scrabble of footsteps, then suddenly the bark of the gun. There were two flashes of flame as glass crashed. The footsteps still sounded, but there had been no cry.

  “He got away,” Osborn said hoarsely. “He got away.” He turned and looked at her. His eyes were dazed, and for the first time she dared to hope. “Missed him,” he said stupidly. “But I—”

  He caught his breath, and the dullness faded from his eyes, they became bright and angry.

  “You warned him,” he said roughly. “You shouldn’t have done that, Gina. I told you that if I couldn’t have you, no one else could.”

  He seemed to be suspended in some half-world which he did not properly understand himself. He glanced out of the window, back to her,.out of the window again; and then he stiffened.

  “There’s Talbot!” he barked. “I told you so, it’s Talbot! He’s the devil. He’s got others with him. They won’t get you, I won’t let them get you, no one shall have—”

  The door crashed back.

  Regina saw the massive bulk of Turnbull hurtle forward. Osborn had his back to the window and the gun in his hand and the intent to kill in his eyes. Death would never be nearer the Yard man until it caught up with him. He didn’t utter a sound.

  It was over so quickly, but seemed to last so long.

  First, Osborn with the gun still rising; then Turnbull moving; then the roar of the gun and the flash; then the two men colliding, and Osborn carried back against the window with a crash which deafened her. But through the roaring in her ears there were other sounds; voices, thumping footsteps, banging doors. Regina saw Osborn and Turnbull on the floor, Turnbull on top, Turnbull smashing at Osborn’s face with his clenched fist. The gun was lying by the wall, out of reach. Turnbull was just hitting at Osborn, whose face was suddenly blotched with red and then smeared and then a red mess …

  Men rushed in.

  Roger West was among them, and it was West who bent down, grabbed the gun, and cracked the butt on Osborn’s head. Osborn collapsed and lay on the floor, moaning, twisting his body about, bleeding at the lips, the temple, and the cheeks. Turnbull’s clothes, as well as Osborn’s, were spattered with blood. He got up unsteadily.

  Talbot appeared.

  “Gina,” he said in a choky voice. “Gina.” He was with her in a flash, in front of her, taking her hands. Then he dropped to his knees, and almost sobbed. “You’re all right, thank God, you’re all right.” The grip of his hands hurt, but she didn’t try to free herself. “I was so afraid,” he said, “I was so afraid.”

  Then West, getting up from Osborn’s side, discovered that Regina was tied to the chair.

  With a doctor by his side, Osborn was on the way to London, in an ambulance. He had been given a shot of morphia, and was likely to be out for several hours. Regina sat in the chair to which she had been fastened, tea in her hands. Talbot, strangely tongue-tied, was standing and looking at her, and the only word to describe the expression in his eyes was adoration.

  Turnbull was at Guildford Hospital, with a flesh wound in his side. He had been able to walk to the car which had taken him, but had hardly said a word since the fight. Outside, police were searching for the spent bullets.

  Now Roger was also drinking tea, a Guildford Inspector was with them, and the patient Dalby, phlegmatic again, had a notebook in his hand. Regina hadn’t much colour, and there was a shadow in her eyes. It seemed to hurt Talbot even to look at her.

  “I suppose it was my own fault,” she said. “Mark rang up when I was at home and said he simply had to see me, he had important news. So I met him for lunch, and he kept saying he was sure that—that you were the killer, Derek.”

  Talbot said weakly, “Not true.”

  “Of course it isn’t true, but he believed it.”

  “Did he say what made him think so?” Roger asked.

  “It was chiefly because of those chocolates,” Regina said. “He’d seen Derek with them in his hand, the night before they were posted. He thought that Derek had switched them.”

  Talbot didn’t speak.

  “I could see he wasn’t well, and tried to reason with him.” Regina went on. “He kept saying that he just couldn’t live without—”

  “You,” interpolated Talbot.

  “Oh, it was absurd, but he seemed so desperately in earnest, I had to try to help him. He suggested a spin in the country, and promised to telephone the office and say I’d be back late. We parked my car in a disused yard, then came down here. He said this cottage belonged to an old friend of his, and we could have some tea. Even then I didn’t realise how far he’d lost his control,” Regina went on very tensely. “I knew he wasn’t normal and wasn’t well, his eyes looked strange; burning. He said he had a bad headache. He insisted on putting the kettle on and told me to sit down—this chair was facing the window then.” She closed her eyes, as if to shut out the memory. “The next thing I knew, he’d dropped a rope over me and was tying me up. He said it was the only way he could make sure that I never got away from him. He didn’t really know what he was doing.”

  “Charity, charity,” said Talbot huskily, “thine other name is Regina.”

  “He couldn’t have done,” she insisted. “It must have been a brainstorm.”

  She paused, and Dalby caught up with his shorthand notes and Roger poured out more tea.

  “What else did he say?”

  “It wasn’t very sensible,” Regina told him. “He wasn’t going to let me go, he’d find the killer and kill him. That—that was always in his mind, finding the killer. Mr. West, I just don’t believe that he’s the man you want. I can’t believe it.”

  “Oh, charity,” murmured Talbot again.

  The Yard seemed almost deserted at half-past nine that night. Roger sat alone at the desk, glad that no one else was there to harass him, checking the reports. Osborn had come round, and according to the interim report, was outwardly normal and did not remember what had happened – except that he had had a fight with Derek Talbot.

  Roger had checked Osborn’s own doctor and a police surgeon. Osborn had been sleeping badly, had obviously been living on his nerves for some time. A nervous collapse turned into a brainstorm was the likely medical verdict. Not common, but not exactly rare.

  Turnbull would be off duty for three or four days at least; but his wound wasn’t serious.

  Regina was back with her mother, who did not know what had happened that afternoon, and was not to be told. The newspapers hadn’t got the story, and no statement was made. There was still no news of Wilfrid Dickerson, although a dozen reports had come in only that day, reporting that he had been seen in a dozen different places.

  The most significant items were about Osborn. Every possible double check was made on his movements, and now a summary was in front of Roger.

  No one knew for certain where Osborn had been on the night of Betty Gelibrand’s murder, but his movements on the night of Hilda Shaw’s murder and on the afternoon of the chase at St. Cleo’s proved that he could not have been at either place. It wouldn’t matter if the Press and the public, including Derek Talbot, believed that he was the killer. There was no evidence at all. The bullets were a different size from the one fired at St. Cleo’s.

  Somewhere, hidden, unknown, the killer still lurked.

  The one certain thing was that he mustn’t be allowed to strike again.

  A strong guard was placed at Regina Howard’s home, at Barbara Kelworthy’s, and at Norma Dealing’s.
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  “Mum, it’s no use,” Barbara Kelworthy said. “I can’t stand this any longer, I’ve just got to go out!”

  She jumped up from a sofa in the small living-room at her home near Wembley. There was a glowing, gypsy loveliness about her, brown, shining eyes, dark hair, a bright colour which owed little to make-up. The same gypsy grace was in her movements, too, and a vitality which had helped her to win the once-coveted prize. She moved like quicksilver, and had a figure in ten thousand.

  “I just can’t, I say. I’m going to the pictures tonight. Gregory Peck’s on, and I just won’t miss it. So there,” breathed Barbara.

  “Well, dear,” said her mother, “I expect one of those policemen would be glad to go along with you. I wouldn’t mind going to the pictures myself for once.” She was a faded woman with a spiritless smile. Her husband was in the merchant navy, and she was always vaguely surprised when he came home. Of all the parents who had been affected by the Beauty Queen murders, she had been the most placid. “Why don’t you put on your new dress, dear, and—”

  “But I don’t want to go with a copper!”

  “I’m sure they’re quite nice men,” her mother said. “They always thank me very nicely when I take them a cup of tea. In a way it’s quite expensive, but—”

  “Let ’em bring their own damned tea,” Barbara stormed. “Mum, be a sport, go and ask Charlie Wray if he’ll take me out tonight. The very idea of holding hands with a copper makes me shiver! Now if it was that big shot, West, or the other inspector it wouldn’t be so bad, but these flatfoots.” She sniffed. “Go on, mum, slip out and ask Charlie. If it’s a question of money, I’ll pay.”

  “When your father wanted to take me out, he always paid,” said Mrs. Kelworthy reminiscently, “but all right, dear, you’ll only get melancholy if you stay in all the time. Your Uncle Benny went melancholy, ever so funny it made him. But you’ll have to let the policemen follow you, won’t you?”