Death in Albert Park

by Bruce, Leo

  “What about young Gates?”

  “I haven’t seen him all the evening. There was others, of course. We’ve been very busy. But no more on your list. One or two women, tonight. With their husbands, that is.”

  “I never asked you before,” said Carolus. “But do you get a man called Pressley in. From Salisbury Gardens?”

  “Used to do,” said Chumside. “But I haven’t seen him for a long time now. Someone told me he’d started going to the King’s Head. Well, its nearer for him, I suppose. No, there’s nothing more I can tell you tonight.”

  “There were no intense conversations?”

  “Not really. They seemed to sit round, if you know what I mean, tonight. Slatter had a few words with Goggins over on one side. I believe Whitehill and Heatherwell were together for a moment. But nothing to notice.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Chumside. You’ve been very helpful. I really think I’m getting somewhere and what you have told me is truly important. It may even be a matter of life and death. May I come and see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. We don’t close till eleven, though.”

  At number 32 Carolus found Heatherwell perfectly sound and calm.

  “I rather lost my head tonight,” he told Carolus.

  “Yes. In the Mitre.”

  “So you know.”

  “It’s my business to know what goes on. That’s why I’ve come to stay here.”

  “I don’t know what made me go off the deep end tonight. I really don’t. I’d scarcely had a drink.”

  Carolus refrained from expressed sympathy or concern for several reasons, one of which was that they might bring floods more psychotic confidences. He contented himself by saying—“Do you have any trouble with sleeping?”

  “It’s funny you should ask that,” said Heatherwell. “You’d think I would have, wouldn’t you? All that tension and everything. But not a bit. I usually sleep like a log.”

  Carolus envied him. Lately he had been lying awake for hours before he slept. The case was worrying him far more than any other. He was oppressed by his inability to do anything decisive quickly enough. He and the police seemed almost to be waiting for the murderer to strike again.

  But tonight he felt exhausted and sleep came, though fitfully at first, soon after he had got into bed, certainly before midnight.

  Then suddenly he was awake. He was aware of the curious fact that he knew what had awakened him though he had not consciously heard the sound. Someone had rung the front-door bell.

  Carolus moved swiftly and silently. He pulled on a dressing-gown and a pair of soft bedroom slippers. He was glad that he had never used those sloppy things with backs trodden down in which one could not move fast without noise. He glanced at his watch, 12:25.

  The house seemed very still. Carolus gently turned the handle of his door and opened it a crack. Everything was silence.

  Again the bell rang. This time it brought sounds of hurried movements from Heatherwell’s room. Loud sounds of movements, too. Heatherwell was evidently not trying to be quiet. It was almost as though there was something hysterical in the way he moved about. His door burst open and Carolus heard the flap-flap of his slippers as he sped downstairs. There were sounds of a chain being taken off and bolts pulled back then the door opened.

  Carolus came right out on the landing and listened but he could only hear one side of the conversation—Heatherwell’s high-pitched voice raised in surprise, and some excitement, but not in exasperation at having been awakened at this time.

  “Oh it’s you. Oh, good-evening,” he heard Heatherwell say, and after a long pause in which all that was audible was a hoarse suggestion of whispering—“Very kind of you. Thank you. But it’s quite all right.”

  Whisper.

  “Oh no, really. Perfectly all right now. Very good of you.”

  Whisper.

  “Did I? Yes, I’m afraid I did. But…”

  Whisper.

  “Oh no. Did I really? How awful. But I’m absolutely all right now.”

  Whisper. Whisper. Was there a touch of urgency in the sound?

  “Thank you. No. No. I’m not alone. Yes. There’s someone here.”

  Whisper.

  “Did I say that? It wasn’t quite true, so far as this house is concerned. I’ve got someone staying with me.”

  Whisper.

  “No, I won’t. Of course I won’t. It was very good of you to come.”

  Whisper.

  “No, I promise I won’t. I quite understand. You don’t need to worry. I can keep a promise.”

  Whisper.

  “Yes. Sure. Thanks again. Very kind of you.”

  Brief whisper.

  “Good-night.”

  The front door was closed and bolted again but Heatherwell did not immediately come upstairs. Was he watching from the dining-room windows to see his visitor depart? Or having a drink to recover from the shock of this encounter?

  Carolus listened tensely but heard no car being driven away. Then as Heatherwell started slowly climbing the stairs he noiselessly closed his door. He waited till Heatherwell was in his room, then went back to bed.

  This time, for several hours there was no sleep for Carolus. What he had overheard seemed to him the first really reliable pointer he had received. Now, like the people of England after each of the early defeats in the second world war, now he knew where he stood. With sudden ease everything fell into place and before he slept he had a solution. It was not cast-iron, it still needed fortifying, but it was a tremendous advance on his previous makeshift theories. The Stabber of Albert Park, that chimera of the popular press, was no longer a vague shape but a reality with characteristics if not features plainly discernible.

  In the morning Heatherwell brought him a cup of tea as usual.

  “Someone call last night?” asked Carolus with an affectation of indifference.

  Heatherwell hesitated, then said—“Yes. A bore. I had just got to sleep.”

  “Anything wrong?” yawned Carolus.

  “No. It was only young Gates.”

  “Really? What did he want?”

  “I was supposed to be with the Vigilantes last night, that’s all. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Carolus saw two possible ways of learning the truth. He might flatly accuse Heatherwell of lying and try to scare it from him. Or he might wait till he had seen young Gates and, facing him with proof that it was a lie, work on from there. He believed he knew the identity of the caller but it was essential that he should know it without doubt. For that matter it might conceivably have been young Gates but if so his call had nothing to do with the vigilantes. He decided on the second course and seemed to lose interest in the whole affair.

  “I should have thought the vigilantes were growing sick of the job by now,” he said stirring his tea. “Looks quite a bright morning,” he added.

  Heatherwell seemed relieved to find Carolus leaving the subject and offered him another cup of tea.

  Because he liked to follow up each point as it occurred he decided to call on Gates as soon as Heatherwell had left. He knew Heatherwell was one of the earliest among the city workers in Crabtree Avenue and with any luck would have gone to the station while Gates was still at breakfast.

  In fact he found Gates preparing to leave.

  “Really, old man,” Gates protested. “This isn’t quite the time to call, is it? I’m willing to give any help I can and all that, but eight-forty-five! Are you out for information again? Wait while I get my coat. You’ll have to walk down the road with me, I’m afraid. I’m in a rush.”

  Carolus obediently followed him into the open air.

  “Now what is it you want to know? Don’t tell me there have been any more phony confessions?”

  “Do you remember what time you went to bed last night?”

  “Yes. Early. Why?”

  “You didn’t go out? After, say, ten, I mean?”

  “Out? No. Goggins and Tuckman were on duty last night. I had a b
it of a cold and my old people insisted that I should go to bed.”

  “You didn’t have to see Heatherwell about anything?”

  “Heatherwell? No. What on earth’s this about?”

  “Just checking up on something. I suppose Goggins and Tuckman would have been together last night?”

  “Not necessarily. We’ve cut down watches now to seven to eleven. It didn’t seem worth covering the avenue for any more. All the murders were within those times. So probably Tuckman and Goggins would do two hours each. Say Tuckman from seven to nine and Goggins from nine to eleven. Something like that. Why?”

  “And no one would be on duty after eleven?”

  “No. We’ve cut that out.”

  “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t call on Heatherwell last night?”

  “Absolutely. If you doubt my word you can go back and ask my parents now. My mother came in to see how I was some time after midnight and found me asleep. Why do you ask, though? What happened last night?”

  “Nothing, really. Or everything,” said Carolus. “Thanks for your information.”

  He phoned Goggins to hear that it was as Gates thought—Tuckman had taken the earlier watch, Goggins the later. But Goggins had been in bed and asleep before midnight.

  Carolus spent the day working on his notes. What last night had revealed seemed even more convincing in the filmy light of day. But he was reduced to infuriating inaction until Heatherwell returned. Had the Detective Superintendent in charge of the case been someone he knew or to whom he could at least give his still circumstantial evidence he would have insisted on an interview. But with Dyke it would be useless.

  Heatherwell was due at about 6 o’clock. At 7 he had not appeared. Nor at 8. Nor 9. At 10 o’clock Carolus phoned the landlord of the Mitre and heard that Heatherwell had not been in that evening.

  Sixteen

  CURIOUS, thought Carolus, how early instincts and obscure rules of conduct persist in ruling our behaviour even in the crises of later life. Here he was at a critical point in one of the most dangerous investigations he had known and he hesitated to examine Heatherwell’s papers. It was absurd.

  He decided to wait till eleven-thirty and then, if there was no word or sign of Heatherwell, to open the large bureau. After all, other lives might depend on his actions at this point.

  In the meantime he phoned Chumside and heard only one small piece of news—of a conversation between two of the men whom Chumside described as on the list—which seemed at all relevant. And occupied as he was in tracing Heatherwell, and learning from him at all costs the identity of last night’s caller, Carolus did not connect Chumside’s information with his present search.

  At eleven-thirty he began to move decisively as though relieved that after all his seeming dilatoriness he could go into action. He swiftly picked the lock of the bureau and found it in a fairly orderly condition. He knew that Heatherwell was a junior partner in a firm of City wine merchants and in a few moments he found some headed notepaper of the firm Nickleby, Roque, Westall and Company. The directors’ names were given and he switched to the London Telephone Directory to find that Giles Hatton Westall, the senior partner, lived in Queen’s Gate. He dialled his number. In a few moments he heard a lush voice, richly lubricated with port, he felt, enquiring who the devil he was.

  Carolus spoke crisply. Heatherwell was missing, he said. He had been due home at six and there was still no word of him.

  “Most extraordinary,” Westall said. “But young Heatherwell has been behaving rather oddly since his wife left him. Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend staying in his house. My name’s Deene. Was there anything unusual in his conduct today?”

  “He did not return to the office after lunch. That was unusual. He told one of my partners he was not well but said nothing to me.”

  “Can you account for that?”

  “Account for it? I don’t know who you are but you’ve got plenty ofimpudence. Phoning me at midnight to ask me to account for a man’s movements.”

  “Do you think he might be with his wife?”

  “Not if he’s in his right mind. She left him. Let him wait for her to come back to him. I’ve told him so a thousand times.”

  “It’s simply a question of tracing him,” said Carolus patiently. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I do not and I don’t want to know. Women nowadays …”

  “Yes, yes. But it is essential that I find Heatherwell. Tonight. Now. It may be a matter of life and death.”

  “Don’t talk hysterically. The man must be somewhere. Have you tried the police?”

  “No, I have not tried the police. There is every reason not to do so.”

  “You mean young Heatherwell is in trouble of some kind?”

  “He may be. Or someone else may. The thing is, I’ve got to find him. Can you give me any information that will help me to do so?”

  “I have an idea he told me his wife was at Hastings,” said Westall less irascibly. “But that was some weeks ago. I can’t tell you any more than that. The whole thing is unaccountable to me. What did she want to leave him for?”

  Carolus hurriedly said good night and returned the receiver while he looked through the bureau again. It was some minutes before he found two or three letters together. They were in a woman’s handwriting and came from the Dukeries Hotel, the Marina, Hastings. One was written only three days ago and all were signed Sarah.

  It was his only chance. Hastings was nearly sixty miles away but for once the Bentley’s potentialities for speed could be exploited without grave risk. He should be able to reach the Dukeries Hotel before half past one.

  His car was in a park in Inverness Road and it took him ten minutes to pull on a coat, reach it and drive off. He knew the way and once he had left the suburbs he could open out. He passed through Sevenoaks at twelve-thirty and Tonbridge ten minutes later, then raced south east towards the coast. It was one-twenty when he came into St. Leonards-on-Sea and a few minutes later pulled up before the fairly large frontage of the Dukeries Hotel.

  He had to ring three times before a sleepy night porter blinked at him.

  “I thought they was all in,” he said sourly.

  Carolus briskly and lavishly tipped him.

  “I’m not staying in the hotel,” he said. “But you have a Mrs. Heatherwell here I think.”

  “That’s right. Number 51.”

  “Did her husband arrive today?”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything about that,” said the night porter.

  “Has he got the same room?”

  The night porter nodded.

  “I haven’t told you, don’t forget.”

  “It’s him I want to see.”

  “I can’t do anything about that except telephone up to the room and say someone’s here. What name shall I tell them?”

  Carolus hesitated.

  “Dyke,” he said at last.

  The night porter went to the switchboard. After some considerable time he got an answer and said sulkily—“There’s a Mr. Dyke waiting down here.”

  Another long silence. Then—“All right. I’ll tell him.” He turned to Carolus. “She’s coming down,” he said.

  “She’s coming down? But it’s Mr. Heatherwell I want to see.”

  “I’m not supposed to know he’s there. It was one of the girls told me. And you don’t know either, don’t forget. Not from me, you don’t.”

  Presently a handsome young woman with flaming red hair, wearing a shimmering pale green dressing-gown, came down the stairs. It was evident that her husband had told her ‘Dyke’ was a policeman. She made only a rather feeble attempt to pretend that Heatherwell was not with her.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Mrs. Heatherwell. It’s your husband I want to see.”

  “But he’s…”

  “He’s upstairs in room number 51. May I see him, please?”

  “He’s asleep.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t think so. And I haven’t come down from London to wait till he wakes up. I’m investigating a triple murder.”

  “But you can’t. He’s…”

  “Yes. I know he doesn’t want to see anyone at present. But this is far too urgent a matter to wait till the morning.”

  Carolus saw that Sarah Heatherwell was dangerously near hysteria. Her hand went up to her face.

  “Are you going to arrest him?” she asked.

  “No. I only want to ask him a few questions.”

  “Oh God. What about?”

  “One question, really. If he’ll answer just one question truthfully it’s all I want.”

  “I knew this would happen!”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Heatherwell. The night porter will get you a drink.”

  “The bar’s all shut up,” said the night porter in his surliest voice.

  Carolus nodded to him sharply and he disappeared for a moment to return with a glass.

  “Drink that,” said Carolus, “while I run upstairs and see your husband. You needn’t worry. So long as he tells me one thing.”

  “It’s on the first floor,” said the night porter. “Turn to your left at the top of the stairs.”

  Sarah Heatherwell who had sunk into an armchair began to sob loudly and uncontrollably. Carolus went upstairs.

  He found Heatherwell dressed and suspected that he had hurriedly pulled his clothes on when his wife had left him to go downstairs. Yet Heatherwell showed no particular surprise when Carolus entered rather than Dyke.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said dully. “Are the police downstairs?”

  “No. I must apologize for giving Dyke’s name. It was absolutely essential that I should see you.”

  Heatherwell blinked.

  “What do you want?” he asked at last.

  “Who came to the house last night, Heatherwell?”

  “I told you. Gates.”

  “Gates was in bed. He didn’t leave his house last night.”

  Heatherwell was silent.

  “I can’t think why you should be so secretive about this.”

  “I gave my word.”

  Carolus saw the futility of arguing or trying to make Heatherwell understand his urgency. The man appeared numbed and scarcely aware of his surroundings. He decided to take a chance. He believed that Heatherwell’s expression, or some movement, or something in the eyes, would tell him when the name was mentioned and started to ask—“Was it So-and-So? So-and-So?” running through not only Chumside’s ‘list’ but adding three names he had not mentioned to Chumside. Finally, at one, he saw what he expected. Heatherwell tried to control a jerk of his whole body but failed.