by John Creasey
‘Well, if he didn’t I guess he didn’t,’ he said; he was glowering. ‘Sure, you can go home … Sure, take the men off the shop on Madison. Goodnight.’
He rang off.
‘So he didn’t show up,’ Rose said, as if relieved.
‘His name was on the passenger list and one of his grips was on board, but he wasn’t, and the stewardess says he never did take his place,’ declared Goodison. ‘He must have fooled the London police at the airport. I guess that’s easy to do.’
‘You’re actually disappointed,’ Rose said. ‘You haven’t a killer on your hands.’
And in a way, she was right.
Goodison lifted the telephone again, called Headquarters, and arranged for an explanatory cable to be sent to Scotland Yard, for West’s attention. There was nothing else to do, because it did not occur to him that the slasher might be in New York, and might be active, in spite of the news from the airport.
Gorgio Rapelli lay between sleeping and waking, in the darkness which was broken only by the reflected light of a store sign, turning red, yellow, blue and back to red with the regularity of clockwork. He could only just make out the colours, and this awareness of his fading sight filled him with bitterness and frustration.
He ought not to be here; he ought to be on the coast valuing the Cormm Collection of Renaissance paintings; instead, Telisa had gone.
Before she had left, they had quarrelled bitterly – because he had been compelled to admit that she would be able to do a better job, although she knew nothing, practically nothing, about the period.
He wished he hadn’t been so bitter. He wasn’t fair to Telisa, she was a good girl, and made many sacrifices for him: but he hated the need for them.
He was alone in the apartment, and it was years since they had kept a living-in help. It was more convenient this way; they could do what they liked much more easily. At half-past eight, old Henrietta would come in, to start breakfast and the day’s work; at nine o’clock the staff of the shop would arrive, and he would begin the pretence again. If his staff or his competitors learned about his blindness he would be ruined. In fact he was a rich man, but that did not affect his thinking.
He thought he heard a sound.
He took no notice of it; there were often odd sounds at night, even at the back of the building.
Then he heard the noise again.
It was years since he had insisted on shutting off the shop premises and the storerooms away from the apartment. The gallery occupied the ground floor and one above, the apartment was above them. They were served by different doorways, and were protected against burglars. There was little need to fear burglary, but—that had sounded like a footstep.
Rapelli raised his head off the hot pillow, and opened his eyes wide, staring at the door which he could only just see. It was closed but not locked. His heart began to beat faster.
There was an unmistakable creaking sound.
Rapelli pushed back the sheet, and got out of bed, stealthily. The long window overlooked another wall and another window, and darkness except for faint colour of dawn in the sky.
The air conditioning was on, but the room temperature was near the eighties. He was thirsty, and went across to the door, hesitated with a finger on the handle, then turned it and thrust it back.
The door banged making real noise.
The kitchen overlooked the street, and much more light came in, with many more colours. Rapelli did not need to switch on the light to go across the hall to the kitchen; he did not need to see. By the time he reached it, and made out the white glow of the ice box, he had told himself that he was on edge for no reason at all.
He stepped into the kitchen.
He saw a dark, shadowy figure leap at him from behind the door, even saw a glint of steel.
Rapelli tried desperately to fend his attacker off.
8: Slasher at Large
THE headlines screamed:
SLASHER IN NEW YORK
BRITISH KILLER KILLS ON MADISON
screeched another.
KILLER EVADES COPS KILLS MADISON ART DEALER
shouted a third, and each front page had its own variation on the same theme. Each newspaper printed the story of the murder of Margaret Roy, as well as her photograph. Radioed photographs of Michael Ashley were alongside it, with Gorgio Rapelli’s picture to make the third.
A copy of every newspaper was on Goodison’s desk, and he looked at them morosely as he sat alone in his office. It was eleven o’clock. He was expecting another call from West, and was edgy because of the waiting. He didn’t like any of what had happened, but least of all he liked the implication that he could have prevented it. There was an atmosphere at Headquarters, an implication that if he hadn’t been at home all yesterday afternoon, he might have done a better job. Undoubtedly he had made at least one mistake. If he had kept a man watching the shop on Madison, the killer could not have got in unobserved.
The killer had used a key.
Goodison pictured the face of old Rapelli as he had seen him that morning, lying where he had fallen after being attacked. ‘Old’ wasn’t true: he was in his early sixties, that was all. He must have fought desperately for life, and had been slashed and slashed again, before a razor-like edge had sliced the carotid artery.
The telephone bell rang, and Goodison lifted the receiver quickly, but it wasn’t the London call, it was Captain Tollifer, with his cold-voiced enquiry: ‘Did we pick up the Britisher yet?’
‘We haven’t found any trace of him.’
‘Those prints we picked up on the door and the handle of the apartment, have they been compared with Michael Ashley’s prints?’
‘We’re waiting to get Ashley’s prints from London.’
‘Let me know as soon as we are sure our slasher and theirs is the same one,’ Tollifer said. ‘How about Rapelli’s daughter?’
‘She’s on her way.’
‘Have her met at Idlewild,’ Tollifer said, and rang off.
He was a man whom one could never be sure of; he might be cool; he might be as friendly as he sounded; he might sound friendly and be ready to stick a knife into your back. Well, not exactly that; ready with the knife, as if he might thrust it in. Goodison grimaced at the harsh comparison between that thought and between the wounds on old Rapelli’s face, and neck.
The murder had all the hallmarks of a psychopathic killing, but it would be a long time before Goodison concentrated on that angle.
There were a lot of things he had to accept, and one was that he was stuck with this transatlantic investigation. Looked at the right way, it could be stimulating. For instance, the Yard man Roger West. Goodison remembered West well, remembered how he had liked him, how he had been liked by most people he had met. The picture of the stuffy, stiff-necked Englishman had been banished forever. But West had been in New York on a case long enough to show Goodison not only differences in approach, but wide variations in outlook, which sprang from totally different conditions. Take psychopathic cases, which were part of the New York pattern of crime investigation. Put that down to the enormous influx of immigrants; to mixed races; to drink, drugs or some hidden factor in the American way of life, it didn’t matter which: it was a major consideration in the investigation of crime. In London such cases might occur, but were not part of the pattern, rather pieces which didn’t fit in. So West would examine the same factors from a different angle, putting the emphasis in different places. And being three thousand miles apart wouldn’t help.
There was the difference in time, too. Noon in New York was five o’clock in the afternoon in London: it was necessary to ask yourself what time it was every time you felt like lifting the telephone. Tollifer would be quick enough to ask in that aloof way of his: ‘Don’t you trust Western Union?’
Goodison picked up a Cable & Wireless message, which had come in from London half an hour ago, and which had really completed his process of self-refrigeration. It was timed three o’clock p.m. in London, and
read:
No possible doubt Ashley was on that aircraft stop grateful if you will check.
West, Yard.
You could like a man when you met him, four or five years ago, and still not like it when he called you a liar or a fool.
Goodison grinned wryly.
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘He’s wrong or we’re wrong, and if we’re wrong, how did Ashley fix it? Or else neither of us is wrong.’ He picked up radioed photographs of Michael Ashley, a dark haired man, lean, five feet ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, with thin features, very big eyes, cheeks which would be hollow if they became much thinner, a hooked nose. It was a good face to recognise, the bone formation and that nose stood out so clearly. Goodison studied a profile and a full face, then lifted a telephone and said: ‘Jensen there? … Send him in.’ He let the receiver go down with a bang, took out cigarettes and was lighting one when Detective 1st Class Hank Jensen came in. The marvel was that he was known as Hank, not as the Swede. He was the nordic type, the type who must have been the answer to Hitler’s prayers, big, fresh-faced, clear-eyed, with crisp fair hair in a crew cut. He was wearing a dark brown suit which fitted loosely on his broad square shoulders and round his hard, flat stomach, and which threw up the startling fairness of his complexion and his hair.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘The Captain wants to know if we’ve found the Britisher?’
‘We started looking for people that aren’t here?’
‘That’s it,’ said Goodison. ‘Hank, I’ve got news for you. You’re going out to Idlewild. You’re going to question the customs and all the officials who handled the Stratocruiser last night, including the porters, and you’re going to find out where the crew is, and talk to them. I’ve just thought up a way that the Ashley guy could have been on that plane.’
Jensen looked sceptical.
‘Scotland Yard could be wrong, remember.’
‘And I’d enjoy pointing it out,’ Goodison conceded. ‘But supposing Ashley went on board under a different name? Supposing he had booked himself two tickets, and used only one of them? So far we’ve talked about a name, we haven’t talked to the airport people about a guy. Here’s the guy. Go and see if anyone recognises him.’
Jensen studied the photograph closely; for him, it must have been like looking at a man from another planet.
‘How’d he fake his passport?’
Goodison grinned.
‘I daresay they can fix that even in England.’
Jensen relaxed. ‘Okay, Ivan. Who’ll I take?’
‘Carosi around?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Take him, and call me as soon as you get some news,’ said Goodison. He nodded, and Jensen turned and went out; then Goodison picked up other photographs of Rapelli.
You had to harden yourself against the effect of this kind of picture on the stomach; the wound inflicted by a knife was as much a clue as a match stick, a handkerchief or a fingerprint. His lips set tightly and his jaws clamped as he studied it. He dropped it and picked up a telephone.
‘I want to talk to Identification.’ He held on, no longer looking morose, but his eyes glittering. ‘Hi, Jack, you got those pictures of Margaret Roy for me yet? … Sure, I know there are some being radioed and more being flown over from Scotland Yard, but some of our agency boys must have some … Well, shop around, Jack, shop around. I want them quick.’ He rang off, and went to his window. It gave him quite a view of rooftops and television antennas, brownstone houses, and stunted skyscrapers.
The door opened, and an old man with a bald head came in, holding a sheaf of papers.
‘There’s some more cables from London, Lootenant.’
‘That so, Sam? You translated them yet?’
The messenger grinned.
‘And some reports from the Precinct.’
‘Thanks,’ said Goodison, and took the papers, then looked hard at the old man, whose eyes were swimming in sweat and whose face looked as if it were oiled. ‘Boy, it’s hot. Why don’t you get yourself a shower?’
‘I’d be as oozy again five minutes afterwards,’ Sam said.
Goodison sat at his desk, forgetting Sam, the heat, everything but the cables that were on top of the sheaf of papers. His eyes began to glitter again. Here were verbatim medical reports on Margaret Roy’s wounds, details he needed badly; and here also was a long, precise description of the damage done to the portraits in the man Wickham’s studio. There were detailed descriptions of Wickham and also of the murdered woman’s sister, Vanity Roy.
There were details of the visits which Ashley, Wickham and Margaret Roy had made to the United States, all the lead that Goodison needed; and there were highly technical descriptions of the fingerprints found at the Chelsea studio, as well as of Ashley’s prints.
‘Maybe you’re not a bad copper after all, Handsome,’ Goodison said aloud, then looked up as the door opened to admit a uniformed man, also with papers, which were obviously more photographic prints. ‘Fine,’ he said, and spread them out on his desk. These were from London, and covered most of the things he needed to know; photographs of Ashley’s prints, of the cousin, Wickham, the girl, Vanity Roy, but most important were the photographs of Margaret Roy, after death. He wished they were in sharper detail; there were drawbacks in radio pictures. He studied them with a magnifying glass, nodded, put the glass in his pocket, collected the photographs and went out and along the passages to a door marked PHOTOGRAPHIC BUREAU.
It was just another office; all the camera work and the developing were done in rooms beyond. Round the walls were big metal cabinets, with shallow drawers. Three men worked at three desks, and the largest desk had the smallest man: Jack Sherpa. Sherpa had the brightest dark brown eyes in New York: those eyes looked as if they had been intended as lenses for a precision camera.
‘Hi,’ Goodison greeted.
‘We’ve been working for you fifty-nine minutes out of the last hour,’ Sherpa said. ‘Okay if we take one minute off for the other seventeen homicide cases?’
‘Sure. Later.’ Goodison handed him the radioed photographs. ‘You seen these?’
‘I personally took them out of the emulsion.’
‘I understand why they’re smeared,’ Goodison said. ‘Jack, compare the wounds in Rapelli’s cheeks with the wounds on the Englishwoman’s will you?’ He watched as Sherpa screwed a watchmaker’s glass in his eye, and waited while one of the other men stared at him, and the second went on with his job. Someone ran along the passage outside, and a door slammed. The working clerk dabbed his forehead. Sherpa dropped the glass and caught it casually, pushed the photographs aside, and demanded: ‘What do you want me to tell you?’
‘The facts, Jack, just the facts.’
‘Those wounds weren’t caused by the same knife, or the same kind of knife.’
‘You positive?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jack, you’re my boy,’ said Goodison, and his smile had a kind of tenseness which hadn’t been there before. ‘Blunter knife on Rapelli, that right?’
‘Yeah. Skin’s broken, not cut the same way.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The incisions aren’t so deep.’
‘Write that down in technical phraseology and let me have three copies,’ Goodison pleaded, ‘because I want to impress a lot of people with that, and I want to send a copy to London as fast as I can get it there. Make sure there isn’t a thing they can argue is wrong.’
‘Facts,’ declared Sherpa, ‘are facts. In a hurry?’
‘Can I have it an hour ago?’
‘I’ll send it over yesterday,’ Sherpa said, and switched the light off in his eyes; he actually grinned as he added plummily: ‘I won’t let the side down, old boy!’
Goodison grinned back.
He went back to his own office, lifted a telephone before sitting down, and asked: ‘Captain Tollifer there?’ He waited, motionless, until Tollifer came on the line.
‘Yes, Lootenant?’
‘Can you see me right away, sir?’
‘Come right in.’
‘Thanks.’ Goodison gathered up the photographs and went through three offices, all with men working and girls working, none of these taking any notice of him except Tollifer’s secretary, who gave him a broad smile and waved to the door. He opened it. There was Tollifer sitting at a big desk in a large airy, very cool room, overlooking rooftops. Everything about Tollifer was neat and spotless; so was everything about his office. He gave the impression of never having anything to do, and he made it a rule never to have two files on his desk at the same time. He was as polished as the desk in his dark suit, the narrow tie with the single pearl in the centre, the shiny brown shoes, the silk shirt.
‘What have you got?’ he asked. No ‘Ivan’.
‘Take a look at these,’ said Goodison, and handed over one of each of the photographs. Tollifer would not want to give an opinion, but would want to be told what this was all about. ‘Different knives were used, with different cutting edges. The wounds are deeper in the London case than in the New York one.’
‘Sherpa agree with you?’
‘Yeah.’
Tollifer nodded, and waited.
Goodison went on: ‘If it was a different weapon, it could have been used by a different man. Whether Ashley was in New York or not, we ought to make sure of that. There could be one killer who flew across to murder Rapelli, and there could be two, one on each side of the ocean.’
Tollifer studied the photographs.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Telephone West whenever you think the business is urgent enough.’ But still no ‘Ivan’.
‘Sure.’
‘Is Telisa Rapelli in yet?’
‘She arrived at Idlewild an hour ago, and should be downtown by now,’ Goodison reported.
‘You’d better go and see her yourself,’ said Tollifer. ‘If you think it’s necessary, advise me, and I’ll see her. Be very careful how you handle Miss Rapelli.’
