Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  Tollifer said: ‘And you’ve discussed this with Goodison?’

  ‘By telephone this morning, and he agrees it is worth investigating.’

  ‘It’s all of that,’ said Tollifer, and gave one of his rare smiles. ‘It looks as if someone’s going to be disappointed. This time I’ll talk to Scotland Yard myself.’ He pushed a report across the desk. ‘This just came in,’ he said. ‘Telisa Rapelli had a Reno divorce from a man named Jeremy Clint, three years ago. And Clint was an Englishman.’

  ‘That’ll help to keep the Yard busy,’ said Jensen.

  Part III

  LONDON – SECOND PHASE

  10: Cold Day

  ROGER WEST pushed back the bedclothes, got out of his bed, and shivered. Janet turned over, and curled up her body, as if she was cold. Outside, at seven o’clock, it was grey, and the greyness took away the colour of the flowers and the brightness of the leaves and the lawns in Bell Street.

  ‘What a day for June,’ he grumbled, and dragged a winter weight dressing gown on.

  There was no sound from either of his sons, Martin or Richard. They could lie in for another twenty minutes, but he wanted to be at the Yard very early this morning. He shaved and washed, went downstairs and made tea, then took the newspapers out of the letter box: the Daily Sketch and the Daily Express.

  The Express headline was about the Middle East. The Sketch had a busty damsel beneath the big letters:

  SLASHER BACK IN LONDON?

  Police Headquarters in New York believe that the unknown killer of Miss Margaret Roy in London and of Gorgio Rapelli in New York’s exclusive Madison Avenue Gallery is back in London …

  Roger went into the front room. The curtains were back, because the room had not been used the previous night. The furniture was shabby, with one or two small, new pieces, and a dark Bechstein baby grand which didn’t look shabby even though it was scratched. He picked up the telephone, dialled the Yard, and squatted on the arm of an easy chair which had a linen loose cover. He could hear the kettle boiling, and the ringing at the Yard. Then: ‘New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Is Mr Kimbell in his office?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Just a moment, Mr West.’

  Roger stared at the greyness and a slight beading of rain on the windows. A gust of wind swept the laden heads of antirrhinums and phlox down. The grass wanted cutting, the boys would have to be spurred on to that. Little beggars. He smiled at the thought of them, and then Superintendent Kimbell, who had been on duty last night, came on the line.

  ‘That you, Handsome?’

  ‘Yes. Kimmy, what’s in from New York?’

  ‘Late last night Captain Tollifer of Police Headquarters telephoned the Commander. Ever heard of Tollifer?’

  ‘I met him once. What did he have to say?’

  ‘That he thinks Ashley may have doubled back to London.’

  My God!

  ‘That all?’

  ‘It’s the only thing Hardy sent through to me, but he said he’d see you first thing this morning.’

  ‘What’ve you done?’

  ‘Tightened the night watch on James Wickham, Vanity Roy and everyone else involved,’ Kimbell answered. ‘Put word out to all Divisions and Home Counties, and asked the airport police to check. Telisa Rapelli was divorced from this Jeremy Clint in Reno, according to Tollifer, and we’ve got a call out for Clint. Not much else we could do by night.’

  ‘It’s plenty. Any idea what time Hardy will be in?’

  ‘He’s an early bird, often sees me before I leave.’

  ‘Like to do something for me?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Send a selection of photographs of Michael Ashley to London Airport for me. I’ll pick ‘em up there in an hour.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kimbell, and added dryly: ‘I wouldn’t put it past those New York chaps to pass the buck.’

  ‘Think they’re good at it over there, too?’ asked Roger. ‘Thanks a lot, Kimmy.’ He rang off, held the telephone platform down for a moment, then lifted it and heard the buzz.

  He dialled Warren Turnbull’s Mayfair number. Turnbull was in the force because he wanted to be, not because he needed to earn a living: his money probably increased his mortification about his wife, for he dressed her extravagantly.

  This call might irritate him; or it might make him feel that he was not being squeezed out. The ringing sound went on for fully a minute, before Turnbull said roughly: ‘Turnbull here.’

  ‘West,’ announced Roger. ‘No need to jump out of bed, but I’m going over to London Airport and don’t know when I’ll be at the office. Have you a pencil handy?’

  ‘I’ve a memory.’ That was sharp.

  ‘Right,’ said Roger. ‘There’s a possibility that Ashley doubled back to England. With Rapelli killed in New York, we don’t know if there’ll be more on the list and we can’t afford to let Ashley get away again.’

  Turnbull said: ‘That’s how good New York cops are.’ So he wasn’t in any better mood, but Roger let it pass.

  ‘We’d better check everyone who knows Ashley, socially and in business,’ he said. ‘Check all the regular customers of the Old World Gallery, all the restorers who work for him if he puts restoring out, any runners he uses, picture frame makers, the lot.’

  ‘I’ve had a man doing that for twenty-four hours.’

  He hadn’t asked permission, but Roger made himself say: ‘Good. We want the complete picture of Ashley’s life and recent activities,’ Roger went on. ‘We also want a complete list of all sales made through the gallery to the United States, especially to Rapelli. All clear?’

  ‘Most of it should be on tap when I get to the office,’ Turnbull said. ‘By half-past eight.’

  ‘I want as much as you can give me by ten.’

  ‘You’ll get it all. Before I ring off, here’s an item,’ Turnbull said. ‘Margaret Roy got a business allowance of dollars to go to America – as a representative of Old World.’

  ‘That’s something to know. Anything in about Vanity Roy?’

  ‘No one tried to burn her flat down,’ Turnbull answered. ‘She’s all right with our chaps on the watch.’

  ‘She’d better be. Thanks.’ Roger rang off, and hurried to the kitchen; it was as full of steam as a boiler house with a leaky valve. He turned down the gas, made tea, slammed it on a tray and hurried upstairs. The thought of Ashley being back in England drove the Turnbull problem to the back of his mind. He poured himself a cup of tea as Janet stirred, and sipped as he looked down at her. Her dark hair was pushed to one side where she had been sleeping; her bare shoulders were slightly tanned. She looked good, even without make-up.

  ‘You up?’

  ‘Got to get a move on,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll grab some porridge, and call the boys.’ He finished his tea, kissed Janet on the forehead, slid his hand down the front of her nightdress and grimaced at her. Then he hurried into his clothes.

  She sat up.

  ‘Give me five minutes to wake up, and I’ll come and cook your breakfast.’

  ‘No time,’ Roger said. Knotting his tie, he went along to the boys, banged on the door, saw them moving sluggishly when he looked in, and called brightly: ‘Afternoon, boys, time for bed!’ Scoopy, the elder, grunted. Richard, the younger, turned over. All Roger saw was the top of their heads and foreheads, Scoopy’s hair sticking out like a golliwog’s, Richard’s, darker, shorter, tidy. ‘Come on, show a leg,’ he insisted, ‘you can have five minutes. I have to get off early.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ That was Scoopy. ‘You always do.’

  Now Richard opened his eyes wide.

  ‘We’ve hardly had time to congratulate you since you became a superintendent,’ Scoopy continued, complaining with weary dignity. ‘Is it always going to be like this now?’

  ‘Your mother thinks so,’ Roger said cheerfully. ‘I may be home early tonight.’ He went back into the bedroom, shrugged himself into his jacket, made sure everything he needed was in his pockets, kissed Janet on the tip of
the nose, and then hurried down the stairs. He sliced bread, slapped on some butter, and ate it in three mouthfuls. He was still swallowing when he took the car out of the garage. A film of June’s rain spread everywhere, the morning looked bleaker than it had when he had got up; it was raining more heavily.

  His car was a black Humber Hawk, fairly new.

  It was five to eight.

  He turned left, towards Fulham, and drove well above the thirty mile an hour limit. Every turn of the wheels took him further away from the Yard. He went past the rows of closed shops in Fulham Palace Road, with hundreds of cyclists coming towards him, and a few going in the other direction; London’s early birds travelled by bicycle. The motors aiding many of them pop-pop-popped ceaselessly. He reached the junction at Hammersmith, and then headed west, for the London Airport.

  Only here and there a newspaper shop or dairy was open. Traffic going out of London hardly existed. He reached the end of the little rows of houses, swung round the big roundabout, and reached the Great West Road. Now he really put his foot down. The lights were kind, he stopped only twice before reaching the airport, and he was there at twelve minutes past eight. He went to the main entrance, finding the public car park was empty; the park outside the main building had only a few dozen cars, and the Queen’s Building looked shut up and deserted. But airplane engines were roaring, and a big aircraft was coming in to land; he saw it disappear behind the Queen’s Building.

  He was recognised by the men outside at the airport police office.

  ‘Who’s on duty?’ he asked, briskly. ‘Mr Wade?’

  ‘Yes, sir, came in five minutes ago.’

  The building still had a touch of newness, inside as well as out, but telltale marks were already on the walls and the floors. The superintendent’s door was open. A week ago, Roger would have tapped, even if he hadn’t sent word to say that he was waiting; now he put his head round the door. Wade, a shortish, plump man, with jet black hair and a heavy blue jowl which suggested Southern Europe, was looking at a large envelope, as he stood by his desk.

  ‘Morning,’ Roger said. ‘Spare me a minute?’

  ‘Caw!’ Wade glanced up. ‘Who’s bought you a new alarm clock?’ He flipped the envelope up and down. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘For you,’ Roger corrected. ‘They’re photographs of Michael Ashley, front, back and sideways, I hope.’

  ‘Don’t tell me any more, I know it all. Will I have them taken round to every customs official, every copper and every clerk, to find out if they recognise him?’

  ‘Not bad,’ conceded Roger. ‘Nearly right, too.’ He offered cigarettes, but Wade shook his head. ‘Over a six month period though, not just in the past week or so.’

  ‘If you smoke those things in the morning you’ll be coughing yourself sick by the time you’re fifty.’ Wade said. ‘Why six months? Don’t say these New York wide boys have fooled you into believing that Ashley’s back here.’

  ‘That’s the second crack about New York police I’ve heard this morning,’ Roger said. ‘What are you sour about? Police quarters at Idlewild or La Guardia more comfortable than here?’

  ‘I’ve got the best in the world,’ Wade boasted, but there was a glint in his eye. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising if New York preferred to wish him onto us, though, would it?’

  ‘I’ve some queer ideas,’ Roger said. ‘I think they’re doing a job the same way as we are, and if they could catch Ashley after we let him slip through our fingers, they’d grin all over their faces.’

  ‘All pals together, eh?’

  ‘All cops together. If New York thinks Ashley came back, there’s a damned good chance that he did. The fact that they can’t find a wanted Englishman in or near New York makes it obviously possible that he got away. How difficult would we find it to trace any American we wanted?’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long, but don’t forget he may have killed himself, and there’s even a chance he’s been murdered. There’s this man Pillitzer to be reckoned with now.’

  ‘New York’s just as aware as we are that he might be dead,’ Roger said almost irritably. ‘They know the killer might be after more victims, too.’

  ‘Any reason to think so?’ Wade demanded, and then added before Roger could answer: ‘Sorry—fool question. Worried about Vanity Roy?’

  ‘I’m worried about everyone in the case, but that’s not why I’m here. Jim, when I heard that Ashley had gone to the airport with a ticket and passport in his own name, and turned up in New York as Marshall Abbott, with ticket and passport in that name, one thing stood out a mile. It probably wasn’t the first time he’d flown the Atlantic under an assumed name. If he’s used one alias, what’s to say that he hasn’t used others? And what’s the reason? Smuggling? Is that the trouble?’

  ‘That’s right, pass the buck,’ complained Wade. ‘But it’s not an original thought. Turnbull was on the phone just before you arrived, on the same idea.’

  Roger said: ‘He gets around.’

  Wade shook out the photographs of Michael Ashley. There he was, sleek black hair, thin features, lean cheeks, big eyes; a dark hawk of a man. In profile, his nose was very noticeable. ‘If he’s been going in and out of the airport under different names it shouldn’t be hard to trace,’ Wade went on. ‘Even a blind man should be able to recognise him.’

  ‘How long will it be before you can give me a comprehensive report?’

  ‘Some time this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s fine!’ Roger took a pencil from his pocket. ‘Got a piece of paper?’ He wrote swiftly. ‘Here are the approximate dates when Ashley is known to have travelled to the States this past twelve months – the last time was in late May. We want actual dates on which he travelled, and it would be worth looking for passengers with initials M.A. If he used the same initials once, he might make a habit of it: that always helps with baggage and clothing.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Wade promised, and went on: ‘Think he and his cousin are smuggling old paintings to the States? Turnbull hinted at it. There’s a big market, and export control over anything worth more than five hundred quid is an open invitation to smuggling.’

  ‘Could be,’ Roger conceded. ‘We’ll ask New York to check how many pictures Rapelli’s have been getting and compare the total with legal exports from here. Turnbull’s working on this end.’

  ‘That right Telisa Rapelli was married in this country and divorced in Reno?’ Wade asked.

  ‘Yes, to and from a man named Jeremy Clint,’ Roger answered. ‘We haven’t got a line on Clint yet, and Telisa Rapelli won’t tell the New York police where he is even if she knows. Thanks for listening, Jim. Let me know if you get any quick answers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger went off as another plane came in, so low that he could see the wording on the fuselage plainly: TWA. Trans World Airlines. How often had Michael Ashley travelled across the Atlantic – how often had Wickham flown across? ‘I’m still only half-awake,’ Roger growled to himself. ‘I ought to have had copies of James Wickham’s photographs sent to the airport, too.’ If he wanted Wickham checked, Wade would have to go over all the same ground again.

  Traffic was a congealed mass of small and large cars and the occasional big lorry, now crawling together, now sprinting together, along the three lane road to the Great West Road, then onto the four lanes leading to London. The four lanes on the other side were almost empty. Roger didn’t worry much about the traffic. Turnbull doing a lone wolf act could be dangerous and it was now glaringly obvious that he wanted to score a triumph – over him, Roger, and over New York. Roger wished Goodison hadn’t been injured, and wondered how badly he was hurt. Goodison wouldn’t have talked to Hardy, but the important thing was that Turnbull shouldn’t talk to anyone in New York.

  Ought he even to be kept on the case?

  A radio flash came for him from Information.

  ‘West speaking,’ Roger said.

  ‘Word has just come in that a man named Clint was
once on Margaret Roy’s visiting list,’ Information said.

  ‘Ah! Thanks. That the lot?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Roger didn’t go straight to New Scotland Yard after that, but turned into Hyde Park at Hyde Park Corner, and then out into Park Lane, near the Dorchester. The Roy sisters had lived in one of the mews flats in Mayfair, quite near Park Lane. Traffic was frustratingly thick, and there was no room to park anywhere, although it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. He turned into the mews, and pulled up outside a garage with a No Parking notice planted outside it. A man in overalls strolled over from a small garage, rubbing his hands on some oily rags.

  ‘Hallo, Hewitson,’ Roger greeted.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ said Detective Officer Hewitson.

  ‘Anything doing?’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir. I’ve just reported to Mr Turnbull.’

  ‘I thought you’d been told not to leave here.’ Roger was sharp.

  ‘I didn’t, sir. Mr Turnbull called on Miss Roy half an hour ago.’

  Roger thought almost viciously: ‘I’ll break his neck before I’m through,’ but kept a straight face, and asked: ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Miss Roy went for her usual ten minutes’ walk about half-past eight, just after the maid came in, about nine o’clock. The postman delivered three letters, just after he left. Otherwise, nothing at all. Miss Roy collected her own milk, of course, always has a pint and a half.

  ‘Probably feeds her complexion on it,’ Roger said. ‘You can have a cup of tea and a smoke for twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thanks very much, sir.’ Hewitson went back to the garage more briskly than he had left it. Roger, still fuming, walked up the five stone steps which led to the front door of the mews flat. Turnbull might have angered Vanity Roy, and made her difficult. It was very quiet here, except for the whine of traffic in the distance, and the occasional tap-tap-tap of a woman walking. The front door was black and yellow, like the paint at the windows. He rang the bell and waited; there was no answer. He rang again, and began to feel that measure of unease which came so quickly on this case. He rang for a third time, telling himself that nothing could have gone wrong.