The Baby Jane Murders

THE BABY JANE MURDERS

A book by Pen Avram

PUBLISHED BY:

Pen Avram on Smashwords

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Copyright 2014 Text-Author - Pen
Avram

Copyright 2014 ArtDesign Author - Pen
Avram

The author and the artwork designer assert the
moral rights to

be identified as the author and designer of
this work,

Contact:
mailto:[email protected]

To those who have not met previously Kroupa
and Hendrych in their adventures, let me redress this misfortune
and introduce the pair.

Kroupa and Hendrych shared
a similar build and both were middle aged. Detective Chief
Inspector Kroupa was a few years older. His pink cheeks were
sagging and he was going bald. Every criminal, who encountered him,
feared him. His simple interrogation technique was well known in
every police academy - ‘He never answers a question with an answer,
but always with another question.
’

There was a popular
anecdote circulated about him. A suspect had asked Kroupa, “Why do
you always answer with a question?” Kroupa replied, “Why
shouldn
’
t I?”

However Kroupa had a
weakness – which also proved to be his strength at times – and it
was known only to Hendrych.
Kroupa always
followed his intuition

Kroupa had worn the same black, horn-rimmed
glasses for over twenty years, since he had become aware that his
eyesight was deteriorating. He liked the old-fashioned look and
they also served as a memento of Rome. Therefore, he never replaced
them. Instead, he simply had the lenses replaced every year. On the
rare occasion when a smile crossed his face, his cheeks touched the
bottom of his glasses.

Kroupa wore tweed. Usually
rusty Harris tweed, comfortable moleskins trousers, dark brown,
soft flat shoes, and a dark green woolen necktie. Whenever he went
outdoors, regardless of the weather, he sported a Baxter Tartan cap
– of course, he
’
d had the pompom removed. “It
looks more ‘classy
’
, and it matches my car,” he
liked to say. The car in question was a dark-brown Rover
SD1.

He liked classical music and art, his
favourites being old Dutch Masters. However, he also had a penchant
for Picasso and Dali, and Miles Davis was often his choice of
music, but not for too long at one time. Philosophy was another of
his hobbies and his library included everything from Plato to
Wittgenstein, but also many Russian writers. He had no time for
poetry or Dickens. But always had time for a pint of cold beer. “It
helps me think,” he liked to say. Sometimes, more often than not,
the thinking did for him his beloved dog Sara. Nobody has ever
known how these two found each other, but there have been
inseparable, making Hendrych jealous. He thought that too much
credit went to Sara - which he thought he deserved.

Kroupa’
s friend Hendrych had been
a freelance reporter for over 20 years. He
’
d written
for major newspapers in Hamilton and when Kroupa had relocated to
Boarsville, he moved too. Amongst his major publishers he counted
Boarsville Morning Post, Boarsville Daily, and Hamilton Telegraph.
He loved to get an ‘exclusive
’
and be paid for it.
Occasionally he still struck gold with The Times and The Guardian,
due to his previous contributions and contacts there.

Hendrych had met Kroupa at the very
beginning of his career while on assignment and since then the two
had become best friends. Hendrych often helped Kroupa in his
investigations. His reward: 'exclusives' for his papers. He was in
his early forties, about 185 cm tall, lean but strong, with a mane
of reddish hair that was always neatly combed. Curiously, he wore
contact lenses and sunglasses, even when the light was dim. Mostly
he was dressed in a fine soft black leather jacket, perfectly
tailored, as were his grey flannel trousers, elegant black loafers
and a blood-red kerchief around his neck. On special occasions, he
would put on more formal flannels, but he preferred his leather. He
liked to look good, and tried to appear younger than he really was.
That was the main reason for his contact lenses. He could take
shorthand, an art almost forgotten by now and he was fluent in a
number of languages. And not the least, he was a back-belt
marshal-art expert.

Hendrych loved his car.
Every three years he traded in his Alfa Romeo Spider for the latest
model, always at the same dealer. “I mightn
’
t be able
to afford a red Ferrari, but I can still afford a new red Italian
car,” he often said with a satisfied smile.

But his failing had always
been in music and arts. He didn
’
t like music and
he didn
’
t understand art. He would
complain that art was subjective and made you take a stand, and not
having any bias or preferences in art kept him neutral. Kroupa had
long given up arguing this point.

“I am a reporter who reports the facts, not
personal feelings or preferences,” Hendrych proclaimed.

Perhaps these differences had helped the two
men maintain their friendship for well over twenty years. They had
solved many mysteries together. It was usually easier for a
journalist to ask questions. People were keen to talk if they
thought there was a chance they might see their names in the paper.
On the other hand, you could come a cropper after an encounter with
DCI Kroupa.

It was steaming hot in Medlow Bath, which
was unusual in the Blue Mountains during summer. In January the
days tended to be hot, but dry. Sandra Whiteford was visiting her
friend Gertrude Winterbottom as she did every day, regardless of
the weather. The two had known each other for over almost fifty
years, since they’d met under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Due
to their family names, they were close to each other on the
electoral role, and the closeness on the roll resembled their
feelings. They could never agree on anything, except that they
would always argue. In later years they both remained old
spinsters, who visited each other on a regular bases, usually
daily, to sit at the table or on the sofa, have tea and the
cucumber sandwiches, which Gertrude occasionally prepared - and
they would argue.

On this particular day Sandra wanted to know
how many times she needed to ask Gertrude to keep Rascal away from
her cats.

“I understand he’s your pet, but cats and
dogs don't go together well. At least not my cats and your dog,
anyway."

"Be nice to him, Sandra, please. He won't
hurt them."

"Don't tempt me, Trudy. If he does anything
to Rosy or Brim, I'll kill Rascal. As my name is Sandra
Whiteford!”

"You wouldn't hurt my Rascal. He’s so
gentle. Just look at him. He understands and right now, he’s
thinking: What a nasty woman Sandra is?"

"Trudy, you've just crossed the line in our
friendship. I’ll have another sandwich and then I'll go. Thank you
for the tea." Sandra did exactly as she'd promised – although she
had not one, but three cucumber sandwiches in a hurry and went
home, which was next door to Trudy.

At home she pondered on the visit. She
couldn't get Trudy’s frightened look off her mind when she’d
mentioned killing Rascal. It wasn't nice. It wasn't right. She had
to set things right. But what would she say? They’d never
apologised for anything they'd said. That had always been the rule
of their arguments. She’d have to have another tea and to clear her
mind before going back.

"Sandra, is that you? I didn't expect you so
soon." Trudy went to the dining room to reconcile with Sandra. She
didn't have a clear conscious either.

----

DCI Rowan Kroupa was walking his beloved
Sara. She loved the fresh air and chasing her new ball that Kroupa
was clumsily throwing for her to catch and bring back. There was a
smile on Sara's face - a smile that only Kroupa could see. His
cheeks were touching the rim of his glasses at short intervals when
Sara ran after the ball, brought it back and pretended that she
didn’t want to let it go. Kroupa had to wrestle with her. When he
got off her, Sara stood a metre away ready to chase the ball
again.

All of a sudden she lost her interest in
playing, pricked her ears and indicated to Kroupa that they should
get on the move. Kroupa, as was his habit, trustingly followed
Sara. They arrived at a house and could hear a dog howling, that
sounded more like a wail.

"What's wrong, Sara? Are you afraid?"

Sara took up the pace. She could sense
something, thought Kroupa. He was right. Soon he could hear a much
quieter howling coming from the house that was surrounded by a
group of people; police, paramedics, and some locals. He showed his
badge to a policewoman who tried to stop him from entering and
walked into Gertrude Winterbottom's living room. The source of the
howling was a black terrier, standing by the body of an elderly
woman. She seemed to be dead. There was another woman holding a
blood-stained poker in her hand and another woman, looking at her
sternly. A man in plastic overalls was examining the dead body
while two policeman were looked on. It was a classic crime scene.
Another woman came in, carefully took the poker away from the shaky
woman and carefully put it into a strange case. She was the
fingerprinting expert.

"Who raised the alarm?" One of the policemen
asked in a quiet voice.

"I did," exclaimed the stern woman with
pride.

"What’s your name?" the policeman asked in
turn.

"Alyson Brunt, I’m Trudy’s neighbour. I live
next door, on the left."

"Did you hear or see anything unusual prior
to ringing the police?"

"That’s a silly question, don't you think?
Why would I call you if I hadn’t heard or seen anything."

"So what did you hear or see?" The policeman
didn't seem to be at all ruffled by her retort. Kroupa gave him a
brownie for that.

"First I heard a screech. I ran into this
house and found the murderer, this woman, holding the poker. Trudy
was lying on the floor. 'Don't you let the poker go', I ordered and
called you. That's how you found us."

"You didn't touch anything?"

"Of course I did. The phone… to call you and
the ambulance."

All this time Sara was taking care of the
distressed Rascal. She put her head on his and was stroking him
with her paw. The policeman turned to the other woman. "And your
name is?"

She could not make a sound. Kroupa took a
glass from a cabinet, went to the tap in the kitchen, and handed
the full glass to the shaking woman. "Thank you," was the first
sound she managed to utter. Then she looked at the policeman with
glassy eyes and didn't answer.

"What is you name?" he repeated. Still no
answer.

"Sandra Whiteford, she lives next door, on
the other side." Alyson offered. "Of course she can't talk after
what she did."

Kroupa observed the two living women and
occasionally his eyes came to rest on the lifeless body. "Did you
take photographs?"

"This is an open and shut case," the other
policeman said. "She was caught in flagrante delicto. What do you
need photographs for?"

"Take them. The position of the body, the
wounds, the usual."

"Do you want pictures of these women,
too?"

"If you don't mind," Kroupa said with a
smirk. "Who is, or will be in charge of this case?"

"I guess Senior Constable Milton from the
Katoomba police station. It's a murder. We don't have enough of
them here."

"How many people live in Medlow Bath?"
Kroupa showed interest in the place.

"Around seven hundred locals and lots of
tourists. Since the refurbishment of the Hydro and the Hotel
Management Institute, it’s been swarming with people. But I suppose
it's good for local business."

"What about Katoomba?"

"Oh, now you're talking. It's a city. Eight
thousand people and hundreds of Chinese. So far they’re only
tourists only. Everybody wants to see the Three Sisters. " The
policeman seemingly forgot that there was a dead body in the room;
he was so enthusiastic he was about his home town.