Murder, London-New York

by John Creasey

  ‘Watch that girl and watch Wickham so that we know every move they make,’ Roger ordered. ‘Be sure that Wickham knows how closely he’s watched, and give the girl absolute priority. If we lose her—’

  ‘We won’t lose her,’ Turnbull said. ‘I’ll stay on the job day and night. But we’ve had a break.’

  Roger went taut.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Meyer’s Warehouse manager was really Jeremy Clinton or Clint. Fingerprints prove it,’ Turnbull reported. ‘He was seen at the warehouse last night, that’s the last we know, so far. Every port and air terminal’s being circulated with a description and a photograph, but you’d better tell your pal Goodison to watch out, too. Maybe Clint’s going back to his ex-wife Telisa.’

  ‘I’ll contact Goodison soon,’ Roger said. ‘Now I’m going to see if I can make Ashley talk.’

  He did not see the look, almost of malevolence, which Turnbull gave him as he went out. Sight of it would have destroyed any illusion that Turnbull was becoming amiable.

  Ashley had a bandage on his head, and a patch or two on his hands. His hooked nose had not been damaged; his eyebrows were singed a little, that was all. His eyes were bloodshot, but either a sedative or an iron nerve kept his hands and his voice quite steady.

  Roger sat by the side of his bed, in a small, square, bare hospital ward.

  ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you,’ Ashley said flatly. ‘I didn’t fancy being cooped up in a cell under remand and I felt sure you were going to arrest me.’

  ‘Any solicitor would have told you that we hadn’t grounds,’ Roger said. ‘And you knew we were bound to get onto Gossen, so the last place you’d go to hide was at his place. What made you go there?’

  Ashley said: ‘You seem to know all the answers. Why ask me?’

  ‘If you don’t stop playing the fool, you, Wickham and Vanity Roy might be killed,’ Roger said roughly. ‘Let’s have the truth. Why did you go to Gossen’s?’ When Ashley sat silent, he added roughly: ‘Did Clint make you go?’

  Ashley gasped: ‘Good God! What do you know about Clint?’

  ‘That he’s probably behind this, but doesn’t work alone, and that he might hate his ex-wife because she divorced him – because of you. Isn’t that the truth?’

  Ashley looked dumbfounded, and it was a long time before he answered, weakly; as if he couldn’t hold out a moment longer.

  ‘All right, I give in, West. Yes – Clint hates the lot of us. I think he killed Margaret, but I don’t know why. He threatened to kill Vanity if I didn’t go to see him at Gossen’s place. I knew that I might be walking into a trap, but I had to go. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for Vanity. That’s the absolute truth.’

  ‘If you’d told us this before she’d be a damned sight safer,’ Roger said, as if he accepted the story. ‘What else do you know about Clint? Did you know he managed Meyer’s Warehouse?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Ashley answered. ‘I always felt a bit conscience-stricken about him and Telisa, and so I got him the job. I wish to God I hadn’t! Some weeks ago we began to suspect that fakes were being shipped in our name, and began to look for the swindler. Clint was an obvious possibility – he was once in prison for fraud, that’s why he changed his name.’

  This had a ring of truth, but a guilty man often mixed truth with lies.

  Roger nodded, and switched questions without warning.

  ‘Why did you fly to New York under an assumed name and false passport?’

  ‘I knew by then that Clint had been sending fakes to New York, and thought he’d killed Margaret.’ Ashley answered quietly, and without hesitation. ‘But if the galleries were known to be handling fakes, we would all be ruined. I had to check with the Rapellis, too. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t complain about fakes. When I got to New York, Rapelli had been murdered.’ Ashley raised his hands helplessly. ‘I know that the New York police think I killed him, but I didn’t. Clint must have had a contact over there, and arranged the murder to prevent Rapelli from talking.’

  ‘Did you find out why he hadn’t talked before?’

  ‘I can guess,’ Ashley said. ‘He’s been going blind for years – Telisa was his eyes. I don’t think he knew about the fakes.’

  ‘Then why should Clint kill him?’

  ‘Damn it, I’m only guessing,’ Ashley protested. ‘Margaret almost certainly discovered what was happening. She telephoned New York from the gallery the night before she died – I know that because I had a query from the telephone exchange about it, next morning. She must have talked to Rapelli, as Telisa was in Los Angeles. If you ask me, Clint killed Margaret, arranged Rapelli’s killing—’

  ‘By remote control?’

  ‘Clint was in New York a week ago,’ Ashley answered. ‘He could have laid it on then. He’s a cold-blooded devil – he always was. I think he hated us all, he’s not only bad but a psychopath.’

  ‘And you still tried to tackle him yourself,’ Roger said sharply.

  ‘I had to try, for Vanity’s sake,’ Ashley answered simply. ‘And—and for the good name of the gallery.’ He looked very tired now, and his eyes were glassy: ‘As for the two names – I’ve used them for years. I started when I used to go to and from New York regularly, and I’ve often used the trick on the Continent,’ he explained. ‘Ours is a tricky business, West. I often need to get ahead of a competitor and see a private customer or get a preview of a sale. I’ve only committed a technical offence with the false passport, though. I guessed you’d alert Idlewild for me, and wanted desperately to see Rapelli, so I used the switch.’ Ashley closed his eyes. ‘It fooled the New York police all right. I wish to God it hadn’t.’

  He sounded as if he meant that.

  It was half an hour’s journey to the Chelsea studio, where James Wickham was still on his own. It took Roger ten minutes to break down Wickham’s resistance, but at last he confirmed everything that his cousin had said.

  ‘My one concern was to save Vanity, and try to help the Rapellis,’ he said stiffly. ‘My conscience is quite clear.’

  Ashley and Wickham might think Clint the killer; they certainly couldn’t prove it.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Turnbull said, at the Yard. ‘Clint may be the man we want on this side, but someone in New York knew they were handling fakes. If the old man knew he might have kept quiet for the daughter’s sake, but the daughter will know Clint’s New York contact. Maybe she’s it. Clint’s on his way there, and he might be going to make sure she can’t talk.’

  ‘Probably,’ Roger agreed. ‘I’ll warn them that he might be on the way.’

  ‘You could also tell them to hold him, we don’t want another one to slip through their fingers,’ Turnbull sneered.

  Part IV

  NEW YORK – SECOND PHASE

  15: Anger

  GOODISON stood, tall and massive, with his left arm in a sling and held across his chest. In front of him, only a little shorter, was Telisa Rapelli. Photographs didn’t do her justice because they robbed her of her colouring. He had seen her three times before, yet each time the brightness of her blue eyes, the red of her lips, the shimmering bronze of her hair, took him by surprise.

  The first time he had seen her, she had been shocked and numbed by the news of her father’s death.

  The second time, she had seemed passionately anxious to help the police to find the murderer.

  Now, there was just one word for what she was showing: anger. And it was probably faked, Goodison thought. He ought to be angry, but was deliberately cool, hoping to make her ensnare herself; for reports made it certain that Pillitzer was in the Rapelli warehouse in Long Island City, and she might know that. Goodison was being very cautious. He had asked her if she had seen Clint, and she had answered ‘no’. He had implied that she and her father had sold fakes to art collectors. From then on her anger had flared up, and she was quite something to see.

  Jensen was near the door. A Precinct man was outside in the main gallery o
f the shop itself. This was the office, and it was nearly half-past five in the evening; the main door would soon be shut. The assistants were out there, waiting for zero hour.

  ‘I’m sorry to put you to so much extra trouble, ma’am,’ Goodison said, deliberately meek, ‘but we just have to inspect all the paintings without delay.’

  ‘I see no point in it at all.’

  ‘We know that faked paintings were shipped from England,’ Goodison explained patiently, ‘and we want to examine every one you received here, to find out if they’re faked or genuine. In the past year your gallery has sold nearly a hundred and fifty paintings, and only eighty-one are on the records as bought from England. I want to know where the others came from. If they were fakes—’

  ‘It is an insult to my father’s name.’

  ‘If everything is right with the pictures, it’s no insult to anybody. If anything is wrong, someone else might have known about it, not necessarily Mr Rapelli.’

  ‘It would be impossible to fake a picture which would deceive him,’ Telisa asserted, ‘and he examined every one which came into the gallery.’

  So she did not realise that the police knew her father had been losing his sight.

  ‘Supposing you hand over the keys to the storerooms here and on Long Island?’ Goodison felt safe to sound impatient. The warehouse was being watched from a distance, and Pillitzer could not get away. The vital thing was to find out if Telisa knew where he was. ‘Just hand the keys over, and get ready to come with us. Experts will be here in a matter of minutes.’

  ‘It will be a waste of time.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Goodison said, now coldly. ‘I’ve received information from London that your ex-husband is a killer and on his way over here. And we know that Pillitzer is loose, also. We don’t want any more dead bodies in the morgue, we don’t have room. In particular we don’t want to see your ex-husband stretched out cold. We want to talk to him.’

  Telisa actually swayed on her feet, as if with shock.

  ‘What’s the truth of this?’ demanded Goodison. ‘You still love the guy? It looks as if he was involved in your father’s murder. That make you feel good?’

  He thought she might collapse, but she recovered, and when she looked at him again her eyes had a strange brilliance.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I love him.’

  ‘You divorced him.’

  ‘I don’t have to betray him.’

  ‘Even though he murdered your own father?’

  ‘I don’t believe he did.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Goodison barked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He in New York?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s your conscience,’ Goodison said, still coldly. ‘Now, we’ll see what pictures are here, and then we’ll go over to Long Island and examine the stock you’ve got there.’

  She turned away, opened the door of a safe, and took out a bunch of keys. With ostentatious care, she closed and locked the safe. As she did so, two men came along the gallery, one walking heavily, one lightly. Goodison called them in. One was a short, plump, middle-aged man, shiny, with a spotted black and white bow tie, a plain charcoal black suit. This was Redman, a well known dealer and art expert. The other was Sergeant Mayne, tall and big, of the Forgery Squad; he specialised in works of art. Goodison saw the embarrassment on Redman’s round face, and wasn’t surprised when he went across to Telisa and said: ‘I wouldn’t do this, Telisa, if I wasn’t sure it would clear your father’s good name.’

  ‘You should say that to the police,’ Telisa said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Goodison said sharply.

  Some of the pictures were in the cellar here, a dozen had come from London recently. Redman and the Forgery Squad man studied them through magnifying glasses, made tests with acids on the paint in corners, examined the canvases, shone bright lights against it, and spent so much time over each picture that even Jensen began to fidget.

  Redman finished, and said quietly: ‘I am positive that each of these paintings is genuine. Each has the artist’s name and the picture history, and the evidence appears to be quite conclusive.’

  ‘You agree?’ Goodison asked the HQ man.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Telisa’s eyes momentarily showed her satisfaction, but she was still aloof and angry as they went to the car. Without appearing to, Goodison watched her closely. She sat upright, staring straight ahead. She wore black, without relief, but her own colouring was so vivid that the black faded into the background.

  They went over Queensborough Bridge. At first the downtown skyline looked like a miracle, with the evening sun shining on it out of a purple-red sky. The tyres hummed over the metal surface. Peak hour was past, but there was still heavy traffic, and the higher level was one way only out of Manhattan. They turned off at the first exit, on the right, and seemed to look over the roofs of an old, dwarf city, which had been disowned by the new giant behind it.

  They turned left, towards the warehouse district, passed under the bridge, and then turned into a street near the subway. One freshly painted building set among a dozen others of the same size and height was marked: ‘Rapelli Galleries’ in gilt lettering. The double doors were closed.

  ‘Is there a nightwatchman?’ Goodison asked.

  ‘Yes. The insurance company isn’t satisfied with the strongroom and alarm system by themselves.’

  Goodison shrugged. They stopped, and Telisa got out without accepting Jensen’s or Redman’s proffered hand. She took out her keys and went straight to the door and opened it. She was about to step inside when Goodison said: ‘I’ll lead the way.’

  She didn’t speak as he took the keys; and his gun.

  It was greyly dark inside, but barred windows let in sufficient light to save it from pitch darkness. There was a smell of polish, as if a house had been freshly cleaned. The light switches were at hand, and Goodison pressed six down, click-click-click, one after the other. Light filled the big storeroom, with the furniture, all old and mostly valuable, stacked in rows as in a furniture depository. On the left were crates, obviously not yet opened, some with labels from Paris, Rome, Milan, Berlin, Copenhagen, most of the European capitals. There were also crates from Japan and the Far East, even one marked Moscow.

  ‘The paintings are all kept in the strongroom, which is specially air-conditioned for them,’ Telisa said, and led the way to a door in a corner. Redman and Sergeant Mayne followed. Keys jangled. Goodison thought he heard a sound in an opposite corner and glanced swiftly towards it. Nothing moved in the brightness. Telisa opened the door of the picture room.

  ‘I’ll still go first,’ Goodison said.

  He stepped forward; ready to shoot.

  He saw a man move swiftly from one side, and on the instant recognised Pillitzer. He saw the glint of the knife in Pillitzer’s hand; just a flash. His finger was on the trigger. He fired as Pillitzer stabbed at him, and darted past him. He heard Pillitzer gasp as the bullet hit him. The others scattered. Goodison swung round, to shoot, but Redman was staggering in the way, while Pillitzer was close to the door.

  ‘Drop on your faces!’ Goodison roared, and as Pillitzer opened the door, he fired again. He hit the man, he couldn’t miss, but that didn’t stop Pillitzer from opening the door, then turning round, showing sharp against the dazzling brightness of the day. A pink car flashed by as Goodison fired again. Now Pillitzer was angled in the doorway, and his arm was moving, like a man throwing a leisurely ball to base.

  Sergeant Mayne fired.

  Pillitzer seemed to fall back, top heavy, but his hand was at the door. He found strength to stay upright. Something small, dark and round curled through the air. Goodison made a desperate leap forward, as two things happened: Pillitzer slammed and closed the door, and there was more greyness; and the thing he had thrown hit the floor, smashed, and then exploded into flames which seemed to burn the eyes.

  Goodison was nearest.

  He flung up his arms
to save himself from the worst of the blast, and fell headlong. He didn’t strike his head, but jarred his wounded arm, until he could have screeched with pain. Yellow-red flame was close to him, and heat, like the searing white heat of a furnace. He heard screaming. He felt himself dragged by the feet along on his chest, and the pain at his arm was excruciating. The heat lessened. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t. He saw two men pass through a hoop of flames and knew they were going to the door. He didn’t see Telisa Rapelli, but heard her screaming. It wasn’t just a scream of fear or pain, there were words: ‘This way!’ she screamed. ‘This way!’ She was standing in the doorway of the picture room, and no man was ever likely to see such a sight again. The glow of the fire was upon her, and seemed to come from her eyes and from her air and from her open mouth. Her hands were crooked and her arms raised as she beseeched the men to come and not to batter themselves against the outer door.

  Goodison dragged himself to his knees.

  The fire was fiercer now. He could feel it vicious against his skin, and sparks flew, red hot, and fell on his clothes, so that he could smell the burning. He narrowed his eyes and felt tears biting at them. Then Telisa stood by him, dragging at his arm, helping him to his feet. He swayed. The heat was not ordinary heat; he looked upon hell.

  ‘This way!’ She didn’t screech now, the words seemed to be forced from her. They staggered to the inner room, where the fire was gaining a hold, across it, past rows and rows of hanging pictures and rows and rows of crated ones. Then they reached another door, and Telisa opened it, and they staggered into the cool of a narrow passage, to a flight of steps, and then through a doorway to a cellar-like room. Here, Telisa left him, fumbled with the door, and opened it.

  Beyond was daylight, coolness, safety.

  Behind was destruction, and behind was death.

  ‘Did you get anyone out?’ Goodison asked the fire chief.

  ‘You kidding?’

  ‘No one at all?’ Goodison insisted.