Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  He heard footsteps, quick and light.

  Vanity Roy opened the door.

  She had always been beautiful, but never quite so ravishing. Her black hair was fluffy and almost like a cloud above her lovely face and her superb peach-bloom complexion. Her eyes looked enormous. She wore a gold-coloured housecoat, fastened high at the neck but so shaped to her figure that it might have been moulded. She had a small mouth with the beautifully curved lips parted a little as if in annoyance.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Roy.’

  ‘Not again,’ she protested, then stood aside for him to pass. It was impossible to judge whether there was still fear in her eyes. She led the way into a room overlooking a small walled garden, with a grass patch and several beds of flowers; a grey film covered it and the green of the grass had a muddy look. An electric fire glowed, taking off the room’s chill.

  It was a tricky situation. Roger didn’t know what Turnbull had asked her, was anxious to find out, but could hardly put a direct question. He needed an explanation for his second call, too.

  ‘Sorry to pester you,’ he said briskly, ‘but I need to find out what dates your sister and your cousins have been out of the country.’

  ‘I’ve already told the other man all I know,’ Vanity protested. ‘As I’m not in the business, I’m not really sure.’

  What else had Turnbull come to ask? The obvious need was to find out if Michael Ashley had been in touch with Vanity, and to warn her to tell the Yard if he did; Turnbull had almost certainly asked that. Had he asked about Clint, too?

  Roger found himself hesitating as he wondered how much Turnbull knew; but he had to justify his visit, and fume against Turnbull later.

  ‘Do you know a man named Clint, Miss Roy?’

  She looked blank.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the name?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Who is he?’

  ‘Telisa Rapelli’s ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vanity. ‘I knew she was once married, but she always used her maiden name in business. I didn’t know her married name.’

  ‘Did you know her husband?’

  ‘No, obviously.’

  ‘Did your cousins?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vanity Roy, and then surprised Roger by saying vehemently: ‘If I can do anything to help you find the murderer, I will. Anything. I promised the other man, what’s-his-name? – Turnbull. Apart from wanting to avenge my sister, I—I’m badly scared.’

  ‘Of course you are. Are you sure you don’t know who might want to kill you?’

  ‘I know it’s been said before but I didn’t think I had an enemy in the world,’ Vanity declared. ‘I was sure that my sister hadn’t, either.’

  ‘Do your cousins stand to gain by your death?’

  ‘No,’ answered Vanity vigorously. ‘And I don’t believe either of them knows anything about this.’

  ‘If you remember or find out anything that might possibly help, call me at the Yard, or even my home, at any time. Both numbers are on here.’ Roger gave her a card, turned to go, and didn’t look back until he reached the door. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was staring at the card, and looking as if she could not make up her mind whether to call him back or not.

  Did she know something which she hadn’t admitted?

  He opened the door and went out.

  She didn’t follow, and didn’t call after him.

  Hewitson was back at the garage, and this time did not move towards Roger, who went to his car. But before he climbed in, a two-tone grey Rolls Bentley turned into the mews, and Roger saw James Wickham drawing up alongside.

  11: Danger for Vanity Roy?

  ROLLS BENTLEYS cost a lot of money. It might be said that Wickham had his prestige as an artist to consider, but he was not one of the big fee earners; he had behaved as if the loss of a few canvases had been a body blow. So where did he get his money?

  He was dressed immaculately in dark grey, the trousers with a razor edge. He carried a furled umbrella and a curly brimmed bowler hat, which he put over his greying hair as he stepped towards the flat. Roger stood to one side, protected from the rain by a small porch roof, and Wickham drew level with him. Wickham was an inch shorter, and he looked as if he had just come from a board meeting of a million pound company. He was almost astonishingly regal in appearance, and there was arrogance as well as distinction in his manner.

  His hooked nose helped to give him an imperious air.

  He and his cousin were alike only in that hooked nose. Like someone else, Roger thought, and then realised who: like Rapelli.

  Vanity Roy came to the door of the flat, as Roger greeted Wickham: ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning.’ Wickham strode towards Vanity. ‘Didn’t you say you’d had one policeman already today?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vanity answered. ‘But—’

  ‘West, I will have you know that if you or your men pester Miss Roy in this way I shall take the matter up with your superiors,’ Wickham said, cutting across her words. ‘You have to make enquiries, but you have no need to worry her every other minute.’

  Roger’s eyes seemed to light up the grey morning.

  ‘Mr Wickham,’ he said, ‘one of your cousins was viciously murdered, another brutally attacked. Yet another has disappeared in peculiar circumstances. I don’t know yet whether he lied, and I don’t know whether you lied, but I do know that Mr Ashley had the opportunity to commit both crimes. So did you.’

  Wickham drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘If you’ve an easy conscience and any sense, you’ll both decide to tell the whole truth,’ Roger went on. ‘And if Mr Ashley gets in touch with you, advise the Yard at once.’

  ‘I’ll soon put you in your place,’ Wickham said but there was no bite in his voice.

  Roger turned and went unhurriedly to his car. He didn’t look round, but heard the flat door slam.

  Hewitson had watched all this with obvious interest, but Roger didn’t acknowledge him this time, just went straight to his car and flicked on the radio.

  ‘Information Room,’ came the response, promptly.

  ‘West here. Put me onto Chief Inspector Turnbull quickly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Turnbull here,’ Turnbull said a moment later.

  ‘I’m at Vanity Roy’s flat, and Wickham’s here,’ Roger said. ‘I want him followed so that he knows we’re on his tail.’

  ‘Think you’ve got ‘em on the run?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘What would?’ Turnbull demanded, and went on with suspicious silkiness: ‘That old Gossen of Portobello Road does most of the restoring and framing for the Old World Gallery, for instance?’

  Roger didn’t speak.

  ‘Remember me?’ demanded Turnbull. ‘I was talking about Gossen, who knows more about faking pictures than any man in London. I’ve been after that angle ever since a picture smuggling and faking racket looked like the answer.’

  ‘Send a cable to New York – and address it to Tollifer,’ Roger ordered. ‘Ask them to have all the paintings known to have been sent over by Old World examined by an expert, and let us know the result.’

  ‘I’ve got the cable written out,’ Turnbull said smugly. ‘I can tell you another thing. A certain Jeremy Clint, alias Clinton, served three years for fraud before Telisa Rapelli married him. We know him as Clinton, and as he’s got a record, we ought to get onto him soon.’ Turnbull’s voice became exaggeratedly formal. ‘The Commander would like to see Superintendent West immediately he puts in an appearance this morning.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Roger said. ‘Anything worth reporting from the Old World Gallery?’

  ‘No. We’re still watching it back and front.’

  ‘Wickham’s studio and Ashley’s flat and office?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Right,’ said Roger. He flicked off and lit a cigarette, glad that he hadn’t been tempted to
reprimand Turnbull over the air. It was a hell of a business to be forced to keep an eye on one of his own men, and it might become a dangerous distraction. Turnbull wasn’t doing badly, though. If he solved this case by himself he would gloat; either way, he would be unbearable.

  ‘The main thing is that he doesn’t mess the job up,’ Roger said sotto voce.

  Five minutes after he had stopped talking to Turnbull, a car passed the entrance to the mews. Roger started his engine, and drove into the street where the bulky detective officer named Brown was already standing and watching a squad car drive off.

  Turnbull seemed to anticipate what was wanted.

  Roger stopped alongside Brown.

  ‘Keep on Wickham’s tail,’ he ordered. ‘Get a taxi, and hire it for the day if necessary. Harass him all you can but don’t give him any cause for complaint.’

  ‘Right sir!’

  ‘And don’t lose him.’

  ‘Be sure of that sir!’

  But Brown knew as well as Roger that if a man wanted to dodge the police tailer, it wasn’t difficult. Would Wickham take the risk? Could he be irritated into making some false move?

  Roger waited until a cab came up and Brown got in, then drove to New Bond Street. Here parking wasn’t simply difficult, it was impossible. He pulled in on the taxi rank outside a hotel in a side street, and a police constable and a porter bore down on him to tell him of his sin. The porter recognised him first, and gave him freedom of the forecourt.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Roger said. ‘Thanks. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Ever since we opened, sir, three years ago.’

  ‘Do you remember a Miss Rapelli, from New York?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I remember her well.’ The porter was short, thickset and very sure of himself. ‘Remember her father, too, very sad about him, isn’t it?’

  ‘How often did they stay here?’

  ‘Two or three times most years.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger. He went into the hotel, and it took five minutes to arrange with the manager to let him have a list of the visits made by the Rapellis, and a note of any other residents who had received pictures from the Old World Gallery. Then Roger walked briskly round to the gallery itself. A cold wind cut along the street; this might have been November, not June. He turned into the gallery, wondering how it compared with Rapelli’s. The front shop was small, but a long L-shaped extension was at the back, and a staircase leading to a cellar showroom, where the exhibitions were held. Two assistants were on duty, a middle-aged fan with a round face and a round nose and very bright blue eyes; and an attractive girl in her twenties.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ The man was aloof.

  ‘Good morning.’ The girl barely smiled.

  ‘Morning,’ said Roger, holding his hat in his hand. ‘Did you hold the correspondence for Mr Ashley?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but Mr Wickham says that you’ve no right to claim it.’

  ‘Until we find Mr Ashley we’ve every right,’ Roger said. ‘Don’t make difficulties.’ The man fetched the letters from a drawer in a Regency table. There were three. ‘Thanks.’ Roger opened each one, but none helped. He put them back in their envelopes and returned them. ‘Has Mr Ashley been in touch with you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The man answered, and the girl shook her head.

  Were they likely to take risks for their employer?

  Roger heard a van draw up outside, and the assistant hurried forward as the driver jumped down. Both men came in, each carrying a picture; and they went back for two more each. Roger saw the van was marked: M. Meyer, Carriers, Specialists in Fine Art Transport. Shipment, anywhere in the world. He made a mental note of that, then studied the unframed canvases, all small landscapes with colourful figures in the foreground, standing against the wall. They had the look of old oil paintings. Did the secret of the murders lay hidden in these or others like them?

  ‘What are these?’ Roger asked.

  ‘They’re just back from the restorers, part of the next consignment for Rapelli’s, sir,’ the assistant explained. ‘Mr Wickham doesn’t expect the tragedy in New York to interfere with business for long.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Roger agreed. ‘Thanks. Who restored these pictures?’

  ‘Gossens of Portobello Road, sir.’

  So there was no attempt at concealment.

  ‘Does Meyer do all your shipments?’

  ‘Most of them, sir. They’re a very good firm.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Roger said. ‘If Mr Ashley gets in touch with you, let the Yard know at once.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The round eyes, the round button of a nose, the round face, were so guileless that Roger found himself wondering if anyone could be as innocent as this man sounded.

  ‘Now that Mr Ashley is away and Miss Roy dead, who is in charge?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Mr Wickham, of course.’

  ‘What about Miss Vanity Roy?’

  ‘She’s never had anything to do with the business,’ the assistant told him. ‘In fact she only came to the shop occasionally, and that was to call for Miss Margaret.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘Do you know a Mr Jeremy Clint or Clinton?’

  There was hardly a pause, before both man and girl said no.

  It had been a poor morning, worse because Roger had been treading on Turnbull’s heels all the time. Moodily, he drove back to the Yard and his office, where Naylor’s assistant was at his desk. He greeted: ‘The Commander would like to see you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Where’s Mr Turnbull?’

  ‘In the Information Room. He’s arranged those extra tails you asked for. Worried about Vanity Roy?’

  Roger said: ‘Badly worried. Here’s a job for you. There are six paintings at the Old World Gallery, ready for shipment to Rapelli’s in New York. Arrange for Mr Fletcher to take a look at them, and find out if they’re real or faked.’

  ‘Right.’

  Roger nodded, then sat at the desk and took out the reports on the case, including one on Vanity Roy. Educated: Roedean. Presented at court when 19. Hobbies: horse riding and boating … mmm … Inherited £21,350 from her mother five years ago. Everything else seemed to fit in with her story. £21,000 wasn’t a big fortune these days; properly invested it would bring her in about 4%, after paying tax. Say, £900 or £1,000 a year. The mews flat cost her £400 a year at least.

  Yes, it fitted in.

  Her dead sister had been left the same amount of money, but had travelled the world, made a reputation for herself in several capitals, spent in thousands where her sister spent in hundreds. Men? She had been beautiful enough to make a fool of any man, and rich men could be easily parted from their money if they had an eye for a figure.

  Had she always travelled on business, after all? Or had she just gone for the advantages of business jaunts?

  ‘The Commander—’ the DI reminded him.

  Roger jumped up. ‘Yes, I’m going. Ring through and ask him if it’s convenient, will you?’ He stood up, waited until the DI nodded, and then went out.

  Hardy was sitting at his desk, with a telephone in one hand, a pencil poised in the other. He waved to a chair. Roger didn’t sit down, but stepped to the window. This room overlooked the embankment, the river, the plane trees, Westminster Bridge and the London County Hall, and one only had to look a little to one side to see the other bridges. There was the dome of St Paul’s, too, a vague shape looming out of the universal grey. Some superintendents also had a room with a view.

  There was a ringing sound as Hardy rang off, and Roger turned quickly. It wasn’t often that Hardy showed excitement, but he did now.

  ‘I wanted a report and a plan of action,’ he said, ‘but that can wait. Turnbull thinks he’s cornered Ashley, in Gossen’s shop in Portobello Road. Get over there, will you? Pick up all details on the radio.’

  Roger was already at the door.

  12: Cornered

  PORTOBELLO ROAD was not a street of beauty at th
e best of times, but it could teem with life. Now it teemed with rain. The stores and stalls had vanished and the voices of the stallholders were silent, and most of the second-hand shops were shut. The grey terraced houses near it looked drab and uninviting, many with uncurtained windows, having dark faces at them, dark-faced children in prams inside halls where the doors were open to let in a little light. Here was decayed gentility of district and houses, with here and there one which had been freshly painted, as if in defiance.

  The ordinary shops in Portobello Road were open but doing very little trade.

  A few bedraggled Jamaicans were standing near a corner where the police had cordoned off the street by using barrow boys’ barrows. It was barricaded at the other end, too. No cars were between the barricades. The Jamaicans, many of them bareheaded, looked cold and miserable and yet fascinated.

  This was a section of the street given over to antiques, jewellery or ‘junk’. Here were pictures, objets d’art, china, trinkets, books, a mass of rubbish which might be hiding a gem of great value. Here, when the market was open, keen-voiced and keen-eyed dealers displayed their wares in the small bazaars or on the stalls outside, and among them were Gossen’s.

  Gossens dealt mostly in pictures. Seventy-year-old Gossen himself was one of the keenest buyers in London, and it was said that he could identify the work of an artist quicker and more surely than any recognised saleroom expert. He spent his life among the box rooms and lumber rooms of houses, buying piles of junk for odd shillings, and occasionally getting a picture which was worth a fortune. He had spent his youth as a runner for dealers, and knew the trade thoroughly. Much of his business was in cleaning and restoring, and for the work he used a big air raid shelter, virtually a strongroom, at the back of his shop. He had never been caught faking, but on his payroll were many men who had.