Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  ‘Before he reaches New York, I hope,’ Roger said fervently.

  ‘Warned New York yet?’

  ‘Hardy is going to talk to Tollifer, and ask them to take a closer look at some of the pictures which Rapelli’s been buying from London and selling over there. Our job is to find out how many fakes have been handled by old Gossen, and sent out of England.’

  ‘When will Ashley be able to talk?’

  ‘Any time. But I’m going to tackle Wickham first.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to let me loose on Wickham, would you?’ Turnbull asked almost pleadingly. He was certainly making a supreme effort to cooperate. ‘I could probably scare the living daylights out of him.’

  ‘You go and see Wickham,’ Roger agreed.

  ‘Right! And there’s one other thing we’ve got to fit in.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The attack on Vanity Roy at Chelsea.’

  ‘And the picture slashing job there.’ Roger agreed. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Don’t act the idiot boy,’ said Turnbull. ‘If Vanity Roy knows about any faked paintings, she might be in the racket, and have been attacked simply to fool us.’

  ‘Possible, I suppose,’ conceded Roger. ‘With Wickham you’d better take the attitude that all of them must have known there was something phoney in those paintings.’

  ‘You going to have a go at Ashley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then give me Vanity,’ Turnbull said, grinning his fiercest grin.

  As he turned to go, the door opened and a messenger came in with a Western Union cable and a decoding. Roger almost snatched it, and Turnbull read over his shoulder.

  New York said: ‘Recommend you search Old Gallery records for exact quantity of old paintings consigned to Rapelli.’

  ‘They’re on the ball,’ Turnbull observed almost regretfully. ‘See that time? They sent that off before we sent ours to them. That puts them in front, but I’m damned if I’m going to let them stay there. Anything in from Bishop about Gossen or Clint—Clinton?’ he added abruptly.

  ‘No,’ Roger said.

  ‘That man’s as slow as a country copper,’ Turnbull growled.

  A telephone on Roger’s desk rang, saving him the need for comment. He picked it up, and the operator said: ‘It’s Superintendent Bishop, sir.’

  ‘Put him through. It’s your country copper,’ Roger added in an aside to Turnbull.

  Then Bishop came on the line; a gruff-voiced Bishop.

  ‘I’ve found that Clint’s been in and out of Gossen’s place a lot,’ he reported. ‘He was working with Gossen, there’s no doubt about that, and faked pictures would be right up Clint’s street. There’s a man we want.’

  ‘Gossen would do for a start,’ Roger said. ‘Will you bring him here or shall I send for him?’

  ‘That’s the bit you’re not going to like,’ Bishop said. ‘He’s vanished.’

  ‘There’s just one place we haven’t tried,’ Roger said, when he had absorbed the shock of that. ‘It’s a firm of fine art carriers and shippers, named Meyer—M. Meyer, with an SE1 address. Tell the Division to check the warehouse quick.’

  Turnbull plucked up a telephone.

  ‘Any special angle?’ he demanded.

  ‘A Meyer’s van delivered some paintings from Gossen’s to the gallery,’ Roger told him. ‘It’s possible—’ But Turnbull was already speaking to the Division.

  14: Gossen

  ‘THIS is Meyer’s Warehouse,’ a girl said, crisply.

  ‘I’ve got to see Mr Clint urgently,’ Gossen said, into the telephone at a kiosk near Piccadilly. ‘Tell him it’s urgent—it’s vital.’

  ‘I’ll tell him when he comes in,’ the girl answered. ‘Who’s that speaking?’

  ‘I’ve told you! I’m Gossen, he’ll know.’ He rang off.

  He was trembling, and there was a beading of sweat on his leathery forehead. He looked very old. The handkerchief with which he wiped his forehead was dirty and damp. He didn’t step out of the box at once, but fumbled for more coppers, dropped them into the slot, and then dialled a Mayfair number. The ringing sound went on and on, and he was about to give up when there was a break in it.

  ‘This is Vanity Roy,’ a woman answered.

  ‘Is Mr James Wickham there?’ Now Gossen’s voice held a humble note.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not, but he said he would look in during the evening. Can I give him a message?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, please,’ Gossen said. ‘Please tell him to look out for Clint. He’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘Who is it speaking?’ The girl was very brisk.

  ‘He’ll know,’ Gossen said.

  He rang off, again, and scrubbed his forehead with that grey-looking handkerchief. A young couple came up, holding hands, and stood just outside the kiosk. Gossen put his hand to his pocket, took out some coppers and stared down at their darkness against his hand. He needed another two pence before he could make a third call. He left the box. The two policemen looked at him, but took no notice. He turned his back on them, banged into a middle-aged woman with a dowager’s air and a big bust, and apologised meekly. The pavement was crowded, the sun was going behind clouds, and the wind which had dropped for a while was freshening again.

  The old man went to a newspaper seller, and type met type. Gossen might be worth a fortune but he looked as if he hadn’t two pennies to rub together. He bought an Evening News and put the change into his pocket, then glanced quickly at the front page. There were photographs of the shop and the crowds and of the fire engines. West was there. The newspaper had the story right, and reported that Hill was dead, and that the police were waiting at Michael Ashley’s bedside. Gossen shivered. He walked on briskly, yet dragged his right foot a little, and soon he came to more telephone boxes. He slipped into one, but before he put his money in the slot, he looked round as if to make sure that he hadn’t been followed.

  No one took any notice of him.

  He dialled a Chelsea number, and was answered promptly by a hoarse-voiced man.

  ‘That you, Jerry?’

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ the man said, with sudden tension. ‘How about it, Gossen? Okay for me to go?’

  ‘Jerry, I don’t know how they got onto it, but the police asked if I knew you.’

  ‘If you’ve talked—’ There was a viciousness in the other man’s voice.

  ‘But I haven’t,’ Gossen interrupted hoarsely. ‘I said I’d never heard of you, but once they start, they keep at you. You can’t get out too quick, Jerry, but you mustn’t use the name Clint or Clinton.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to,’ Jeremy Clint said roughly. ‘Gossen, if you shopped me, I’ll—’

  ‘But I didn’t!’ insisted the old man. ‘Don’t I know what would happen if I did?’ He was sweating. ‘I even ducked the cops to get a message to you, they’ll pick me up any time now. I won’t let you down, Jerry, but get out, quick.’

  ‘I’ll get out,’ Clint said. ‘And you keep away from the cops for another twenty-four hours. Don’t make any mistake. If the cops get me, I’ll still get you.’

  Gossen gave up, and rang off.

  It was sticky hot in the kiosk when he pushed the heavy door, and stepped outside. He was near a traffic block, and an empty taxi was almost opposite. He beckoned it, got in, and as the cab started off at the green light, he said in a frail voice: ‘Just drive round the parks for half an hour, and then drop me at Waterloo Station, Waterloo Road entrance.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The old man sat huddled in his corner, hardly looking at the parks, the crowds beginning to throng them, the hundreds stretched out on the damp grass or sitting in deckchairs, the children playing. Every time he saw a policeman he seemed to shrink further back in his corner, and he was not seen. Exactly half an hour after he had stepped into the taxi, he got out in Waterloo Road, and then walked at that brisk pace but with his right leg dipping a little, towards the Old Vic. He turned down by this. Beyond were stree
ts of little grey houses, making the houses of the Portobello Road area look palatial. The streets were mostly empty. Now and again he passed a small, dilapidated car, once a sleek modern Ford Zephyr, more often motorcycles and motor scooters. He kept looking behind him, but was not followed.

  He slipped into an alley between terraces of houses, where a noticeboard said: M. Meyer, Shippers. The sign was startlingly new and bright and the cargo boat drawn on it was as much a work of art as any country inn sign.

  At the back of these terraces was a huge shed, also marked M. Meyer, with a small door set into a big door which was wider than the average pantechnicon by little more than three inches on either side.

  The smaller door was closed. Gossen took out a key, took a final swift glance over his shoulder, inserted the key and turned, then thrust the door open. It was pitch dark inside, and the bright daylight seemed like the beam of a searchlight.

  He stepped in and pushed the door behind him; and then he heard a sound. He turned warily towards it. There was just enough light to show him the figure of a man.

  Suddenly great fear swept over Gossen, and he raised his frail arms and cried: ‘Jerry! Don’t—’

  He tried desperately to open the door wide and get away, but was too slow and too frail.

  The first blow cut off his scream.

  ‘Gossen was seen near the Old Vic,’ Turnbull told Roger. ‘That’s not far from Meyer’s place. Wouldn’t like me to go and see for myself, would you?’

  ‘There’s too much to do here,’ Roger said, as a telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver almost automatically. ‘West here.’

  This time the operator had put the caller through, and a man with a familiar voice said: ‘Hallo, Handsome. That true you want old Gossen alive?’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Well, you can’t have him.’

  The laconic comment didn’t sink in at first.

  ‘Don’t give me—’ Roger began, and then broke off. ‘What’s this?’ His voice was harder.

  ‘When that flash came in from Turnbull, I sent a couple of my chaps round to see if he was at Meyer’s Warehouse,’ the caller told him. ‘He was. Head smashed in. Coming over to have a look for yourself?’

  ‘Hold everything,’ Roger said. ‘Come on, Turnbull!’

  He hoped that gesture would help to heal the breach between them, and Turnbull seemed to respond almost eagerly: ‘No need for two of us,’ he said. ‘I’ll see Wickham again, I can’t help feeling he’s our man.’

  ‘Carry on.’ Roger said.

  There was a lot of fast, home-going traffic, but he made the trip across the river and past the Old Vic in ten minutes and pulled up near Meyer’s Warehouse. Few people were about: the local police had managed to keep this quiet so far. The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet; it would draw the crowds when it came. Roger went into a big, lofty, very clean warehouse; there was a main shed, with several smaller storage rooms. The shed was empty, and its concrete floor quite clean. The rooms were crammed with old pictures and frames, and it looked like a mass of junk.

  In one of the rooms was a large bench with old canvases on it, and obviously someone had been in the process of taking the paint and varnish off, so that the canvas could be used again.

  ‘Who’s this Meyer?’ Roger asked the local superintendent.

  ‘He’s the oldish man who owns the place, but he says he leaves everything to his manager, a chap named Ordin,’ a tall, lanky superintendent replied. ‘I’ve sent for him. But there are some things we can see for ourselves, Handsome.’ He led the way to the smallest of the rooms. ‘Here’s where pictures were crated and got ready for shipping, and here are printed labels to Rapelli’s, Madison Avenue, New York, and the New Bond Street gallery’s name on each label, too.’

  ‘Find that manager,’ said Roger, ‘and find out who knew that Gossen often came here. Call in every man you’ve got, and I’ll send as many as I can over from the Yard.’ The words came thick, fast, angry. ‘We want every man, woman and child questioned, every house called on, every tradesman tackled. We’ll flash a request for information on the television and radio tonight.’

  ‘I’ll get it started,’ the local man promised. ‘What’s got under your skin, Handsome?’

  ‘Margaret Roy, old Rapelli, Hill, and now Gossen. When’s it going to stop? We’ve got to make sure this killer can’t get to New York, so we’ve got to have him quick.’

  ‘You won’t find it easy to make the people round here talk,’ the local man reminded him, ‘but I’ll do all I can.’

  Roger said: ‘Fred, don’t let him slip through.’ He drove off, feeling vicious with himself, bitter with a sense of disastrous failure. Gossen should have been watched more closely, and it was no consolation to say that he must have slipped Bishop’s man deliberately.

  Roger reached the Yard a little after seven, strode up to the office, and thrust the door open. Turnbull was sitting in his chair again.

  ‘My God, what’s eating you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Forgotten about Gossen?’

  ‘He’s no loss.’

  ‘He was our main lead to the killer,’ Roger said. ‘What did you get from Wickham?’

  ‘He was at the Old World Gallery from five o’clock until half-past six.’

  ‘Gossen was killed sixish, so that’s given Wickham a perfect alibi,’ Roger said, gloomily. ‘He wasn’t at Gossen’s place in Portobello Road last night either, so he didn’t kill Hill or set that place on fire. Ashley’s in the clear about Gossen, too. So we know we’ve a killer whose name is unknown to us, unless it’s this Clint or Clinton.’

  Turnbull said: ‘I’ll work all night if needs be on Telisa’s ex. Anything special for me?’

  ‘Check the watch on Vanity Roy and James Wickham. Step up the search for Clint. Take a Fingerprints man over to the warehouse with photographs of Clint’s dabs, and see if he’s ever been there. Have the assistants at the gallery followed – they knew about the warehouse too. Follow every lead, every half a lead, and when you’ve made sure everything’s ticking over, go and see how they’re getting on at Meyer’s Warehouse. If anyone was seen going in or out of that warehouse, we want him. Man or woman.’

  ‘Right,’ Turnbull said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to see Vanity Roy and Wickham,’ Roger said.

  Wickham was suave.

  ‘I don’t believe my cousin is guilty of any crime, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘This business of faked pictures is news to me, and it will be news to him. It might have been someone at the warehouse, or at Gossen’s place. I never did trust Gossen …’

  ‘Did your cousin?’

  ‘He used Gossen because Gossen was a genius at retouching and restoring, and because he employed other men who were nearly as good,’ Wickham answered. ‘He didn’t hold a man’s past against him, and wouldn’t have cared if the workman had spent half his life in jail. It’s obvious that some of the runners or some of the other restorers who worked for Gossen have been mixed up in this, and if they do a good job, even the so-called experts can hardly tell the difference between a hundred-year-old painting and a new one done on old canvas.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘Can you make new paintings look old?’

  ‘If I didn’t know you were working under considerable pressure, I would resent that question,’ Wickham said coldly. ‘No, I can’t. I am a modern painter, and I’m not interested in faking or copying.’

  ‘Can you give me a complete list of people your cousin dealt with on restoring and cleaning?’

  ‘All the work was put through Gossen,’ Wickham answered. ‘He’s the man you want.’

  ‘For what?’

  Wickham answered suavely: ‘I’m not a complete fool, West. It’s now obvious that some faked paintings have been sent to New York. My cousin would certainly not engage in that kind of fraud, but obviously Gossen did. As obviously my poor cousin Margaret found out, and was killed. Mr Ashley
doubtless discovered it – ahead of the police, apparently.’ That sneer misfired. ‘It’s clear that Rapelli found out, too. My cousin probably went to warn him, but found he’d been murdered. You want to look for Gossen’s associates each side of the Atlantic, and waste less time with us.’

  ‘Did Jeremy Clinton, Telisa Rapelli’s ex-husband, work for Gossen?’ Roger demanded.

  ‘I wouldn’t know him if I saw him,’ Wickham answered.

  Vanity Roy was in her flat, alone. She was wearing a sheath-like dress, which emphasised her slimness and her smallness. Her hair looked as if it had been burnished, and her eyes carried the fear which had been there from the moment Roger had first seen her.

  ‘I was hoping you would come,’ she said, unexpectedly. ‘Earlier today a man rang up and told me to warn Mr Wickham about this Clint. I told my cousin and he—’ she broke off again, as if hating what amounted to a kind of betrayal. ‘He was obviously worried, although he told me he hadn’t any idea what the message meant. You won’t tell him that I told you, will you?’

  For the first time Roger began to feel that Vanity Roy was absolutely on the level.

  ‘I certainly won’t,’ he promised. ‘What did the man sound like?’

  ‘I should say he was old,’ Vanity answered.

  Gossen?

  ‘You’re positive that it worried your cousin?’

  ‘I’m quite sure.’ Vanity stood up and drew closer to him. Obviously she was in great distress, but her voice was quite steady, her eyes were calm. ‘I can’t live in this uncertainty any longer. Is there anything I can do Mr West? Whatever the risk, I must do something.’

  ‘If there is a thing you can do, I’ll tell you at once,’ Roger said. ‘Don’t do anything, don’t talk about Clint again, don’t even show your suspicions. It could be very dangerous indeed.’

  ‘I know,’ Vanity said. ‘That’s what frightens me so.’