Death in Albert Park

by Bruce, Leo

  “When Joyce Ribbing left you that evening, Mrs. Whitehill, you did not feel the smallest anxiety about her going home alone?”

  “Not the smallest. Why should we have, then?”

  “There had been a brutal murder, after all, only a fortnight before, in this avenue, and no arrest had been made.”

  “One does not suppose, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, that murders go in districts. If we thought about it at all we supposed that someone had reason to murder that schoolmistress. We did not suspect a maniac.”

  “I see.”

  “One swallow doesn’t make a spring, you know,” persisted Stella Whitehill, who had reached an impasse in her Patience and begun to cheat, “After the other two murders and Viola’s narrow escape we knew where we stood. But not that night.”

  “Dr. Ribbing phoned about eleven?”

  “Yes, and said Joyce wasn’t home. Even then it did not occur to me till Viola suggested it,”

  “After you had left the phone?”

  “Yes, About half an hour after. We were just going to bed when Viola remembered about the schoolmistress and I phoned back to the doctor to hear if Joyce had come in. When I heard she hadn’t I really did begin to wonder whether anything had happened.”

  “I was sure ofit,” said Viola almost ecstatically.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Stella harshly. “You were sure ofit. But thmjou didn’t know that Joyce Ribbing had a lover, and I did.”

  “Nothing else happened that evening to alarm you? Nothing after Joyce Ribbing left? You heard nothing from the street? I ask because this is one of the only houses in the avenue which hasn’t got television.”

  “I won’t have it,” explained Stella Whitehill, adding a dismissal of the whole invention, “it’s a bore. No, we heard nothing.”

  Carolus asked no more but rose to leave. As he was thanking the two women there was an interruption. A middle-aged man of medium height and commonplace features burst in, somewhat drunk.

  “Don’t tell him anything!” he said. “I’ve just been talking to the police. They say not to tell him anything.”

  “If you had told us that an hour ago …” began Stella.

  “I’ve only just heard. I was talking to the police. They said if he calls on us we’re not to tell him anything.” He turned to Carolus. “That’s what they said,” he added apologetically.

  “I don’t think you need worry,” suggested Carolus gently.

  “I don’t worry,” said Stella. “What use are the police, anyway? They haven’t prevented these murders and here we are still living in conditions of siege. Neither Viola nor I can go out at night.”

  “I can, though,” said Whitehill with a chuckle.

  A storm was rising in Stella’s square-set face and Carolus quickly took his leave. He did not envy White-hill the next half hour.

  He wanted to interview only two more people in this connection, but one at least of them would be difficult and painful—Dr. Ribbing. Until now he had witnessed nothing that could be called grief in this affair. Gerda Munshall had given the impression that she had taken up life again with renewed zest after the loss of her friend and Jim Crabbett had been philosophical, to say the least of it. But from Heatherwell and others Carolus had gathered that Ribbing was quite broken by his loss and he felt diffident about disturbing him with questions. However, he would try.

  Whether or not Ribbing thought he was a patient Carolus could not decide, but he was shown to the doctor’s consulting room. He briefly stated his business and was surprised to see the doctor nod and say he would tell Carolus all he could.

  He was a little under average height and his face had a somewhat lugubrious expression which was not altogether the result of the tragedy, Carolus judged, but an expression of a morose character. He decided that as far as possible he would let the man say what he liked without more than prompting him here and there.

  “These murders are the work of someone who has a certain knowledge of anatomy. They have been done with almost surgical skill, though considerable force was used.”

  “That is the quickest way to the heart, I believe?”

  “That was the classical idea as certain sculptures show us. It has been used by suicides, I believe.”

  Carolus stared.

  “Is it possible?”

  “Quite, for a strong and determined man. Not, of course, that any of these murders could have been suicide.”

  “Would you say that the combination of knowledge, skill and force used in the first murder is sufficiently rare for us to be sure that the second murder was the work of the same person?”

  “In my opinion, yes. It is possible, of course, that the second was the work of an imitator, but it is highly improbable. I believe that a homicidal maniac was responsible for all three.”

  “And that the maniac’s choice of victims was entirely dictated by circumstances?”

  “That seems obvious. If he was someone who would arouse no particular attention in Crabtree Avenue he could wait and watch till the circumstances combined. All he wanted was a dark night on which the weather would keep most people at home, a woman alone and no spectators. He could get these quite easily and did so twice within three weeks. As you can imagine, Mr. Deene, I have given a great deal of thought to this.”

  “What about the third murder?”

  “Crabtree Avenue was under continuous observation. He had to go somewhere else.”

  “Why didn’t he go to another district altogether? Wouldn’t that have been safer?”

  “My conclusion is that he was a resident here.”

  “Without transport then?”

  “Probably. Another thing. All three of these women have been of less than average height. My wife was distinctly short. It may also be that the murderer had to add this to his conditions. If he himself was not tall it would be difficult to use that blow downward at the shoulder.”

  “Yes. I’ve thought of that. Do you suspect anyone, Doctor?”

  The question came so swiftly and was so straight-aimed that Carolus himself was surprised at his own audacity.

  Ribbing thought long before answering.

  “I have no reason to suspect anyone,” he said, “therefore I shall voice no suspicion of any individual. But it seems to me unlikely that it could be a stranger to the district…”

  “Why? Since no one familiar was observed hanging about on any of the three nights in question, an unfamiliar person need not have been.”

  “I disagree. If the murderer was a resident in Crab-tree Avenue he could have waited in his own house for a favourable time. And the fact that when he had to move his venue he chose another so near seems also to argue that he was a local. Personally I am convinced of it.”

  “So you suspect someone in this district of no more than average height whose movements cannot be accounted for on any of the three occasions?”

  “Exactly. If I were investigating that is the way I would proceed.”

  “Very interesting, doctor. But you would come up against a snag at once. Who can account for his movements on three specific nights spread over several weeks? He may think he can, but unless he keeps a very detailed diary he would be in difficulties. Then you get alibis which may be honestly intended but are faked or self-convinced, a whole chaos of lies, conscious or unconscious.”

  “You have experience of these things and I have not. But I should have thought it possible to narrow it down.”

  “From what? There would be scores of people who would have to be considered. Do you, for instance, exclude the idea of a woman as the murderer?”

  “Not altogether.”

  “Then where would one start? I tell you almost nobody could completely account for his movements on all three nights. Could you, for yours, for instance?”

  “I could. In two cases I would have nothing that could be accepted as an alibi. The one alibi would exclude me from your list though.”

  “If nothing else did.”

  “Nothing els
e would” said Ribbing emphatically. “If, as we must suppose, these murders are the work of a schizophrenic nobody is excluded, not even those who have suffered by them. It will be circumstances and facts which will enable you to trace the man, not personality or characteristics. A schizophrenic homicide might be the mildest and most gentle man or woman so far as we know him.”

  “Would there be nothing in his everyday conduct to suggest an abnormal state of mind at certain times?”

  “I am not an alienist. What little I have learnt of psychiatry I have picked up as most G.P’s do, in the course of my work. I think the symptoms are pretty varied. A tendency to isolation is one of them. There may be delusions of various sorts, silly beliefs and so on. Sudden excitement, too. Illogical thinking. Persecution mania. Delusions of grandeur. It’s not very helpful. I tell you, I think you will only get your man by supposing he is sane, as he is most of the time.”

  “You don’t think anyone could have had a motive?”

  A grim smile moved Ribbing’s tight lips.

  “In all three cases?” he said. “No. I do not. Unless by motive you mean some obscure sub-human urge which may have actuated him. Certainly nothing which in a sane and normal mind could be a motive.”

  “Just old-fashioned blood-lust, in fact?”

  “Yes.”

  Carolus saw that an expression of sadness and fatigue was deepening on the doctor’s already gloomy face. He decided to ask no further questions but to get in touch with Turrell without mentioning him to the doctor. But he had a surprise.

  “I suppose you intend to see Raymond Turrell?” Ribbing said.

  “I must,” said Carolus quietly.

  “He’s to be found in a pub called the Apple Tree in Chelsea most evenings at about seven, I understand.”

  “Thanks.”

  “He lives at 14 Rotterdam Street, Chelsea. His telephone number is Cheyne 2004,” said Ribbing in a dull monotonous voice.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him. He seems a very agreeable kind of man. And now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “I’m most grateful to you, doctor.”

  “I hope you’re successful. Good night.”

  A very curious encounter, Carolus thought as he walked away from the house. Very curious indeed.

  Thirteen

  CAROLUS heard all he wanted from Turrell in half an hour in the Chelsea pub mentioned by Ribbing. They sat in a corner of the saloon in which there was too much of that fruity conversation laced with licentious wit of a kind common to the district. There were too many women with dogs, women dressed in popular versions of the season’s designs, too many men with brush-like moustaches, and altogether too much brassy liveliness.

  Turrell appeared to be the sort of man who belonged to this. He had not a moustache but he dressed the part, wore a regimental tie, and spoke in a rich plummy voice.

  “But I don’t quite understand,” he said when Carolus had introduced himself, “why you come to me.”

  “You were a friend of Joyce Ribbing’s, I believe.”

  “I knew her. But what’s that got to do with it? She was murdered by a maniac.”

  “I am trying to find out a little about each of the victims.”

  “Very praiseworthy, I’m sure, but quite useless. How can it possibly help you to identify the murderer?”

  “I don’t know that it will. But it might, and there’s not much else I can do.”

  “You might try to prevent another woman being murdered,” said Turrell with a touch of bitterness.

  “I don’t think another woman will be murdered,” said Carolus.

  “So you’ve got a theory?”

  “The beginnings of one.”

  “And you think I can help you to build it up?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It all sounds rather forlorn to me. I’ve nothing to hide, of course. Every blasted Tom, Dick and Harry seems to know that we were having an affair. Even newspapers have practically said so. If you want me to tell you it’s true I’ll do so.”

  Carolus hesitated.

  “I think I understand how you feel,” he said at last. “It’s hateful to have one’s private life discussed all over the place. You must naturally think that your feelings for Joyce, and hers for you, are your own affair. I wasn’t, believe me, trying to intrude on them.”

  Then Carolus had one of those surprises which occasionally came to him from the middle of conversation. Looking at his glass and speaking very quietly, Turrell said, “I loved her.” He might almost have said “I killed her,” so unexpected was the simple statement.

  “And she?” said Carolus.

  “No. I’m afraid not. Or not enough. She had made it quite clear to me that she wouldn’t leave her husband. I could never shake her on that though God knows I tried.”

  Carolus waited.

  “It wasn’t money,” went on Turrell. “I have an income. Nothing enormous but probably a good deal more than Ribbing earned. And she had money. It wasn’t her home, either. She loathed that ghastly suburb. And it wasn’t that she was in love with Ribbing. It was just loyalty and—if you like—decency. She was what used to be called straight. Oh, I know we had an affair. But she would never let it interfere with her … home life.”

  Without a word Turrell took their two glasses to the counter and came back with them filled.

  “You don’t want to intrude, you say,” he continued. “Then perhaps you’ve got more than you bargained for. I’ve told you a few home truths. Or wasn’t that what you wanted? Were you going to ask me where I was on the night of the crime?”

  “No. I wasn’t going to ask you that,” said Carolus.

  “The police did, believe it or not.”

  “Could you tell them?”

  “Yes. I was here till closing time, fortunately. Getting drunk.”

  “And on the other nights?”

  “What other nights?” asked Turrell rather vacantly.

  “If the police were logical, after asking you about your movements on the night of Joyce Ribbing’s murder they would have gone on to the other two murders.”

  “I never thought of that. They didn’t, though. It wouldn’t have been much use. I’ve no idea where I was. At a show, perhaps. Or a party.”

  “You weren’t in Albert Park, anyway,” said Carolus, not letting it sound like a query.

  “I’ve never been in Albert Park in my life. I suppose I’ve been somewhere near it on my way out of London. Not far from Lewisham, isn’t it? But to my knowledge I’ve never even been through it.”

  “And of course you knew no one connected with the place except Joyce Ribbing.”

  “I’ve met her husband, since. Otherwise no one at all.”

  “You say you’ve driven through Lewisham. You have a car?”

  “An old Jag. Why?”

  Carolus looked rather uncomfortable, but turned the question to motoring, which absorbed them both for another five minutes, till Carolus left.

  He felt greatly dispirited. His personal enquiries were finished and had brought him no nearer to certainty. It was true that if his theory could be made to hold water no other woman would be stabbed in Albert Park, but he had no measuring proof behind it and only the most circumstantial of evidence. Besides, even his theory did not mean that there would not be another murder and Heatherwell was a perpetual anxiety to him.

  When he reached Crabtree Avenue it was between eight and nine o’clock, the time, approximately, at which all three murders had been committed. It was a gusty dark night and the street was deserted. Passing number 32 he continued up the slope till he reached the trees opposite the school gates among which the wife of the school caretaker thought she had seen someone move on the night of the first murder.

  Carolus stood there a moment watching the empty street. A group of three left one of the houses near Perth Avenue and walked towards the lights of Inverness Road. Two boys could be seen on the pavement barging into one another playfully before
they turned into one of the houses in the lower part of the avenue. Otherwise Carolus could see no one.

  But that did not mean the street was wholly deserted. In any one of those front gardens someone could be waiting, as someone had waited in all probability, at least on the night of the second murder.

  Suddenly, standing there, Carolus had a sense of identity with the murderer, as though something in his sub-conscious mind responded to the macabre impulses which had driven him out to kill. It was as though he understood those impulses, as though he too could start forward when a woman came out of the school gates alone, could follow her down the footpath and understand the mad excitement of plunging the knife downward. Deliberately mesmerizing himself into this, he stooped over the corpse in his mind, picked up the dead body and concealed it under the hedge. He almost felt the psychotic exaltation of the moment. But a few minutes later the reaction came flooding in and he looked down at his hands in horror as though to see if they were bloody.

  That was it. The reaction. Within hours, perhaps within minutes of the act the murderer must have felt this exhausting disgust with himself and what he had done. More likely minutes—while he yet stood on the pavement outside the garden where the body lay. He would loathe not only the thought of that corpse but of himself, of his mania, of his brutality. Apart from the danger of being where he was he would feel the horror of being alone, he would look with longing at the lights of Inverness Road where ordinary people went cheerfully about their business.

  As Carolus looked down Crabtree Avenue as though with the eyes of the murderer, he saw the bright lights of the Mitre at its foot. So must the murderer have looked, and in looking have longed to be among other men drinking there. How better face this dreary and grim reaction? To hear voices, to drink cheerfully, to be surrounded by normal contented people, it must have drawn him irresistibly. Perhaps, if he was a local, some of them would be known to him. What more reassuring than to be greeted as he entered? Out of the blackness in which he had been astray, out of the night of sick fancies and maniacal violence, he could come to his own kind, to people who knew him and would never connect him with the demonic events of the night.