Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  ‘Do you know where he is at the moment?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’ Wickham took cigarettes from his pocket, and proffered them; Roger took one, to show that he preferred this amiability. The other detectives were still moving about, but they were not likely to be here much longer, although the pictures themselves had to be examined by an expert; a consultant was on his way from the Yard.

  ‘Aren’t you Chief Inspector West?’ Wickham asked.

  ‘I’m West, sir, yes.’

  ‘I thought I recognised you. You’re very like Martin Vere, the stage star, did you know that?’ Was Wickham now using soft soap deliberately? ‘How much do you know about the enquiries that Naylor was making?’

  ‘Everything, I think.’

  ‘Then you know that I’m the artist and Mr Ashley the businessman of the family,’ Wickham said. ‘We own the Old World Gallery in New Bond Street, and although most of our stock is old school or conventional, there are always a few of mine, and we were going to put on a special exhibition. Of—of these.’ He looked at the slashed canvases, and his lips tightened. ‘I tried to get in touch with my cousin at his office – that’s not at the gallery, it’s on the other side of Bond Street – because Miss Roy wanted to see one of us, and I couldn’t get away from the exhibition, but he wasn’t in.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Roger.

  ‘About an hour ago, a bit more perhaps.’

  ‘Did Mr Ashley leave a message?’

  ‘His secretary said he’d had a telephone call, and gone out without saying a word. That’s not unusual, he’s rather absent-minded, and he’s had a lot on his mind lately.’

  ‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Right, sir. Do you mind if we use your telephone?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks. Sergeant,’ Roger said, turning to O’Mara, ‘have Anderson telephone Mr Ashley’s office, and the Old World Gallery, to find out whether he’s back.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ O’Mara replied in his soft, brogue-laden voice, and went off. The atmosphere was much more normal, and Wickham moved to Vanity’s side and put an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t edge away, but was watching Roger very closely, as if there were a lot of questions she wanted to ask; and more she expected from him.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Ashley today, Miss Roy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you speak to him on the telephone?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes were huge.

  ‘Did you have any particular reason for coming here, instead of going to your flat?’

  ‘I think I can answer that for her,’ put in Wickham, easily, ‘and you’ll probably think we were both a couple of fools, but you don’t understand all the pressures.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Now that this has happened and Vanity is back, you may as well know that I asked her to go down to the cottage. In fact, Michael and I practically made her.’

  He was wary in spite of the new bonhomie, as if he expected sparks from Roger after this revelation.

  ‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘That was after you knew about the murder of Miss Margaret Roy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you think it necessary to send Miss Vanity Roy to Lynn?’

  ‘We just didn’t see why she should be dragged through the whole ugly business,’ answered Wickham. ‘There wasn’t a thing she could do, and you were bound to have her up for questioning, the press would be hounding her day and night, and there seemed no point in it. We’ve always made a practice of keeping Vanity away from the seamy side of life, haven’t we, Van? She’s the baby of the family.’ He hugged his cousin. ‘This was such an unhappy, sordid business that we hadn’t any doubt that we were doing the right thing.’

  ‘Or did you send her away because you thought she would be attacked?’

  ‘If I’d dreamt of that I wouldn’t have let her go alone,’ Wickham answered.

  Roger swung round on Vanity.

  ‘What made you change your mind and come and see us at the Yard?’

  ‘I couldn’t stand being on my own any longer,’ Vanity answered simply. ‘I found a newspaper at a picnic spot, saying that you thought I might be dead, and I didn’t think it right to allow you to go on thinking that. And—anyhow, I felt I owed it to Maggie to do anything I could to help.’

  ‘How could you help, Miss Roy?’

  ‘By saving you from wasting time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Roger said, dryly. ‘Did you see your sister’s body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How could you be sure that she was dead?’

  ‘Michael and I found her,’ Wickham interpolated, ‘and we sent Vanity away to save her from unpleasantness. I realise it was lunacy, now, but I don’t think I’ll regret it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Roger, non-committally, and glanced round as O’Mara appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘Mr Michael Ashley isn’t anywhere to be found, sir.’

  ‘All right, thanks.’ Roger turned to Wickham. ‘I’ll get back to the Yard but I shall probably have to see you again soon, sir. Will you be here all the evening?’

  ‘I might want to go out for dinner.’

  ‘There’ll be someone here on duty, I’ll appreciate it if you’ll tell him where you’re going.’ Roger was still amiable. ‘Will Miss Roy stay with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vanity volunteered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Roger nodded to the girl, then to Wickham and went out, with O’Mara following him. Anderson was in the lounge, near the door, but everyone else had gone, so the routine work was finished. If anything of importance had been discovered, it would have been reported by now; the signs were not encouraging.

  ‘Anderson, nip over to the Old World Gallery and to Mr Ashley’s office, and find out what you can about his movements today,’ Roger ordered. ‘See if anyone there has any idea where he is.’

  ‘Right, sir!’ Anderson looked glad of another chance to make amends.

  Roger went down the stairs first, and was sitting at the wheel of his car as Anderson hurried towards a second police car which would be put at his disposal. Then O’Hara came and poked his nose into Roger’s window.

  ‘Want me any more, sir?’

  ‘Get in,’ Roger said. ‘As soon as we’re at the Yard I’m going to have Vanity Roy guarded as if she were royalty. And I want those notes transcribed in a hurry, we might need a statement signed by Wickham tonight. Any impressions about the gentleman?’

  ‘I’d trust him about as far as I could see him, Superintendent,’ O’Mara said.

  Roger grinned, started off, then took off the radio receiver, and flicked the radio into life. When Information answered, he said: ‘I want four men standing by for special duty, that’s the first job. Then I want a list of all friends and acquaintances of James Wickham, the artist, and Michael Ashley of the Old World Gallery, both cousins of Margaret Roy. I’m looking particularly for evidence about Wickham’s temperament – does he fly off the handle easily, or does he usually keep level-headed? … Right, thanks.’ He flicked off again, and heard O’Mara chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t like to say how far we can take his word on anything, either. What did you think of the girl?’

  ‘If you’re asking me as a human being, I’ll tell you that they don’t come any prettier even from County Cork,’ declared O’Mara. ‘But if you’re asking me as a detective officer, then I’ll tell you that I think she’s a very frightened young woman indeed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Roger urged. ‘Just because I’ve been kicked upstairs, you needn’t deny me the advantage of your long experience.’

  O’Mara beamed.

  ‘If I had to give an opinion, sir, I would say that she is scared because she thinks she knows who’d like her dead.’

  ‘In short, she can lead us to the killer,’ Roger said, thoughtfully. ‘I hope you’re right. I know one thing; I want to talk to the other cousin, Ashley, as soon as I can.’

  Five minutes later, he was hurrying up the steps of the Yard. The first m
an on the steps who congratulated him made him frown for a moment, not quite understanding. Then he laughed, waved, and said: ‘Oh, thanks,’ and hurried on. He reached his own office and thrust open the door, to see Turnbull sitting at his, Roger’s, desk as if Turnbull was the new superintendent. At least he got up, rubbing his hands and making a faint noise.

  No one was at the other desk.

  ‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ Turnbull announced, as if he relished the fact. ‘Mr Michael Ashley, cousin of the late Miss Margaret Roy, got a seat on board a T.W.A. Stratocruiser airliner this afternoon, and is now about six hundred miles en route for New York. I told Naylor yesterday that I thought we ought to hold him for questioning. Even a blind man should have seen that.’

  6: Request to New York

  TURNBULL held his hands still, and the slithering noise stopped; it was as if he was determined to enjoy every moment of his sensation.

  Roger concentrated on the announcement, not on Turnbull’s sneer. There was some justification for it; Ashley and Wickham should have been closely watched, although there had been no apparent reason for holding either. He didn’t blame Naylor, simply wished that the other man had cast his net wider.

  Now Turnbull seemed to be saying, with a kind of jubilation: ‘Here’s a mess you helped to make; how are you going to get out of it?’

  Roger asked sharply: ‘What have you done?’

  That startled Turnbull, who said: ‘Nothing. You’re the boss.’

  ‘You’ve got a mind, why not use it?’ Roger sounded harsher than he felt; Turnbull on the defensive would do no harm for a while. ‘Cable New York that they might have a killer on their hands. Give details of aircraft, seat number, description of Michael Ashley. Has the Old World Gallery got a New York associate?’

  ‘Yes. On Madison Avenue, Number 700 plus, a place called Rapelli’s Gallery.’

  ‘How closely do they work together?’

  ‘Exclusive representation, either way, apparently. Rapelli does much more buying than Old World Gallery, though. From what I could make out,’ Turnbull went on, ‘Ashley searches England and Europe for old masters and ships them to New York, where the price is very high. I haven’t seen any figures but I’ve been told that they can often get a thousand per cent profit.’

  ‘Any other association?’

  ‘Don’t know of any. I was working mostly on the dead woman’s overseas connections.’ So that was out, and Turnbull was now simply a police officer, quite impersonal. ‘Maybe someone in New York hated my lady’s guts, or else someone in Monte Carlo – she used to spend a lot of time there. My bet would be New York. I’d been finding out where she usually stayed, how long she was there, and what American friends she had.’

  ‘How were you checking?’

  ‘Through a maid who went on the last two trips with her.’

  ‘Where did she stay?’

  ‘Sometimes the Statler, sometimes the Waldorf Astoria.’

  ‘Know where Michael Ashley stayed when he went to New York?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you a city map of New York handy?’

  ‘I can get one pretty quick,’ said Turnbull. ‘Now what’s on your mind?’

  ‘One or two things I’d like to check,’ Roger answered as Turnbull turned towards the door. Then he called Turnbull by his Christian name. ‘Warren.’

  ‘Yeh?’ Turnbull demanded, over his shoulder.

  ‘We may have a lot of reasons for suspecting Michael Ashley, but we haven’t anything near proof,’ Roger said. ‘His cousin, Wickham, isn’t out of the woods yet. If the killer’s still in England, he might not stop at one victim.’

  ‘Meaning Vanity?’ Turnbull demanded.

  ‘Who do you think is the best man to watch her, apart from guarding her?’

  Turnbull gave his swashbuckling grin, itself a reward for Roger’s olive branch. ‘Warren Turnbull!’ he declared. ‘But since he has a reputation for being a wolf, and has a hell of a lot of desk work to do, anyhow, I’d try young Gregg. He’s quick, and can lose himself in a crowd.’

  ‘Brief him, will you?’ said Roger. ‘The girl’s still at Wickham’s flat, so Gregg had better pick her up from there when she gets back.’

  ‘I’ll fix it, and then get that map of the New York City,’ promised Turnbull.

  ‘Just Manhattan will do,’ Roger said, and looked down at the papers in front of him. He might have used the right tactics; anyhow, he could not spend any more time worrying about Turnbull.

  Nothing new had come in, and he had not yet studied the reports which Naylor had got together; he needed two or three hours with them. One angle seemed to be building up, though; jealousy between the cousins, perhaps a quarrel, perhaps a beauty who played one against the other. That would look sensational in Sunday newspapers, but Roger wanted a case for the court. He took out the report on Michael Ashley, and everything Turnbull had told him was there. He pulled a telephone forward, and the bell rang as he touched it.

  ‘West here.’

  ‘This is Hardy,’ said the commander, in his crisp voice. ‘I’m just going off, anything special you want?’

  ‘Did you know that Michael Ashley has flown to New York?’ asked Roger.

  ‘The hell he has!’

  ‘I’d like to telephone New York Police Headquarters,’ Roger went on, hopefully. ‘It’s not an easy subject to explain in a cable, and we’ve got to alert New York before Ashley gets there.’

  ‘Think it’s big enough for top level?’ Hardy enquired.

  ‘Oh, no – it’s only routine, to have Ashley met at the airport,’ Roger answered. ‘Lieutenant Goodison of the Homicide Squad is my usual contact man. He’s sound and he’ll fix it and save us a lot of time.’

  ‘All right, go ahead,’ Hardy conceded, and added as an afterthought: ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Take care of the other girl, won’t you?’

  ‘Believe me I will!’ Roger said fervently.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Hardy said, and rang off; and as the line went dead, Roger realised that he still had not said anything to Hardy about his promotion, the commander had probably been instrumental in getting it. He called him back at once.

  ‘What’s that, Handsome? … Oh, forget it, it was long overdue … You’ve got a juicy one for your first case anyhow.’ Hardy rang off again, and Roger pushed the telephone away from him for a moment, and then called Information.

  ‘Did you get anything on James Wickham for me?’

  ‘Had a word with Mr Fletcher,’ the Information CI answered, ‘and he reports that for a painter, Wickham is about as even-tempered as they come. No temperament to speak of, just a level-headed businessman approach. Only once been known to lose his temper – he’d identified a Corot, and a French expert disagreed with him!’

  Roger grinned: ‘Vanity touched, eh? Thanks.’

  He rang off, then put in a call to the firm of art dealers who were most often consulted by the Yard. Abel Fletcher was a doyen of the exhibition and salerooms, and it was said that he knew more about painting than any other man in London. He was a man of seventy, and when he came on the line sounded like one of forty or fifty.

  ‘Ah, Superintendent.’ So he’d been told. ‘Aren’t you satisfied with my opinion of James Wickham?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. I’d be grateful for another opinion, too.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Do you know Rapelli’s, of Madison Avenue?’

  ‘Very well indeed.’

  ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You know that Old World Gallery represents them over here, of course.’

  ‘I’ve dealt with both firms for forty years,’ Fletcher said dryly.

  ‘You couldn’t tell me the name of the principal in New York, I suppose,’ Roger said cunningly, and gave Fletcher a chance to answer promptly: ‘That’s where you’re wrong. There are two – Gorgio Rapelli himself, and his daughter.’

  ‘Dau
ghter!’ Roger was surprised into the exclamation.

  ‘Very charming woman, named Telisa, somewhere in the middle thirties,’ explained Fletcher. ‘She probably controls the business these days, although her father is still nominally the head of the firm.’

  Fletcher never introduced a subject without good cause, so Roger asked: ‘Any special reason for that?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a closely guarded secret, and would damage the Rapelli Gallery’s reputation seriously if it got out. The old man’s nearly blind.’

  ‘That makes the daughter his eyes,’ Roger remarked.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Fletcher agreed. ‘She’s had a very bad time with him, I do know that. He won’t admit that he’s unable to see pictures properly, and his temper is shocking. Telisa Rapelli has given up a lot for her father – including a husband and a fiancé.’

  ‘Now don’t keep anything back,’ Roger said, and won a chuckle, before Fletcher went on: ‘She married a man named Clint and there was a divorce, partly Rapelli’s doing, I think. I don’t know a lot about the details, but I always understood that Clint wanted to live in England, and Telisa couldn’t leave her father. Then about three years ago she was going to marry Michael Ashley—’

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Roger. ‘Ashley’s on his way to New York now.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought he had homicidal tendencies,’ Fletcher said dryly.

  ‘Can you tell me when the engagement was broken off, sir?’

  ‘In the early autumn, two years ago.’

  ‘I don’t know where we’d be without you,’ Roger said. ‘Very many thanks.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ Fletcher assured him.

  Roger rang off, opened the file to the report on Margaret Roy’s movements, and found that she had been in New York in September and October, two years ago – that was about the time when Telisa Rapelli and Michael Ashley had parted.

  The telephone rang while he was pondering the possible significance of that.

  ‘West,’ Roger said.

  ‘I’ve just come back from View Crescent,’ a man reported. ‘I’ve been looking at those slashed canvases.’

  This was a detective inspector who specialised in knife wounds.