The Chelsea Murders (10 page)

T
HE
front pages were black with chloroform next morning. As Jack had said, there was nothing to touch a maniac for keeping readers up to the mark. Like the Boston Strangler and the Cambridge Rapist before him, the Chelsea Maniac now entered the Press pantheon.

He sprang in fully-costumed with his big head and his white face and his rubbery lips; and also with an interesting new set of characteristics. The
Globe
had already established that he was not only a deranged genius but one who mocked the police with coded notes. As every one of the papers noted, the police were still refusing comment, apparently preferring protection of their reputation to that of the public.

Warton, grimly reading, saw that they had a point.

But he brooded on another.

What his correspondent had advised was an intention to steal a kiss; from L.H. What he had demonstrated was that if he had wanted, he could have stolen a life as well; that he had to be taken seriously.

But seriously in which way? What did he want? If it were simply publicity he could have sent the messages to the Press himself. Evidently he didn’t wish to do this. But the Press (at least the
Globe
) had in some way got wind of them.

Warton had an itch to call the girl Mooney to find out how; and waited restlessly for the order instructing him to. It hadn’t come by mid-day, and he read through the early editions of the evenings, all still heavy with the manic kisser.

A few minutes before one he called the Yard himself, to learn that the C.C. and all senior officers were conferring on the matter; and put down the phone, burning. As the man in charge of the case, shouldn’t he be conferring with them?

He had sandwiches in his office, and at two was favoured with a call from his Commander.

‘Pull Mooney in, Ted.’

‘Right.’

‘Have you got up the C.C.’ s nose in some way?’

‘Wouldn’t know,’ Warton said.

‘Try and be flexible, old boy.’

‘Like me to come off the case?’ Warton said stiffly.

‘Don’t be so damn silly. There’s nobody better. There are a lot of issues here, Ted. We were discussing them.’

‘Yes. Heard you were conferring,’ Warton said.

‘He knew you were up to the neck. His opening remark – you weren’t to be disturbed.’

‘I see,’ Warton said, somewhat mollified. ‘You realize that pulling her in confirms the notes?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Okay.’ He buzzed Summers and told him to get Mooney.

However, it was Tuesday, and Mooney wasn’t so easily to be got; the last pages were due down and she was phoning in stories from here and there.

‘Righto. Whenever you do contact her,’ Warton said, when Summers came in to explain the delay. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

He had looked up from the latest editions, with a certain relish. ‘Seen the
Globe
, Summers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Too late for its rivals to compete, the
Globe
had suddenly dropped Honey as its main attraction, and had very dramatically and startlingly re-made the paper, widening the field and giving it quite a new and urgent quality.

THE SIEGE OF CHELSEA.

‘Not bad,’ Warton said. ‘Buy it myself. Who’s this bloke?’ He was tapping the photo of the policeman decorating the page.

‘That,’ Summers said loweringly, ‘is the young prick who was on the door at The Gold Key when the girl removed the photo. I’ve just been talking to his local station. The
Globe
apparently told them last week they were doing a series on London police, and they fell for it. This – this bloke volunteered.’

Warton gave a low chuckle. He’d thought it too good a production to have been dreamed up in the course of the day; backed up to the hilt inside, special stories: gyms, locksmiths, sex clubs. ‘Got on to Shaft, I see.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Got to hand it to them. They do a job. Let me know, then.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Summers said, and went out; and within the minute was back again.

Warton looked silently at his stricken face, and at what was in his hand.

Then they both looked at it, on his desk.

This one had been posted in a street pillar box some time between mid-day and 3 p.m. when the box had last been emptied.

Same paper, same type style.

With the briefest look at Summers, Warton reached for the
Oxford
, and traced the quote.

All morning, after seeing the papers, Brenda had been feeling nervous, but it wasn’t till mid-afternoon that she braced herself.

‘Could I have a word with you?’ she asked the chief librarian.

‘Of course, Brenda. What is it?’ he said.

‘Well, you know when those detectives came the other day, they asked if I’d mentioned it to anyone else …’

Warton got this at about five, and he slowly nodded, seeing the thing begin to add up.

‘Where is Mooney?’ he said.

‘She left the Citizens’ Advice Bureau five minutes ago, sir. We’d left a call for her there.’

‘Did she get it?’

‘Yes, they told her … It’s apparently her busy day. She’s hopping about, phoning in – evidently quite normal. She’s
keeping
her appointments in some funny sort of way, though.’

‘All right. Put a car on her. I’ll be here,’ Warton said grimly.

He wasn’t, though. He was at the Yard when Summers finally pinned Mooney. This was at 7 p.m.

‘Kicking up a bit, sir. Picked her up at her door,’ he told Warton. ‘She apparently wants to go to some party.’

‘Okay. Let her.’

‘Let her
go
?’

‘Yes. See her tomorrow. Ten.’

‘Okay, sir,’ Summers said, long-suffering. ‘Ten in the
morning
?’ he added, to get it right.

‘That’s it. Good work, Summers. Very nice. Go home,’ Warton said, feeling flexible.

He’d had rather a flexible chat. There was a lot of point, he saw, in flexibility.

‘You didn’t answer our calls,’ Warton said.

‘I was busy. Late stories. Didn’t they tell you?’

Rather a besom; and very alert, Warton saw. Something hysterical about the large eyes.

‘I understand that,’ he said flexibly. ‘Still, you must have had an idea what it was about. Not of interest to you?’

‘Of great interest, but we’ve all got our jobs, Superintendent. Tuesday’s the big day round at the
Gazette
. And anyway, here we are,’ Mooney said gaily.

‘Okay. Fire ahead.’

Mooney was confused. ‘You wanted to see
me
,’ she said.

‘Understand you’ve asked to interview me a couple of times. Give you the precedence. Start interviewing.’

‘Well. Well,’ Mooney said. ‘Have you had any more notes?’

‘Yes,’ Warton said.

‘I see,’ Mooney said breathlessly. ‘Would you like to say what’s in them?’

‘No,’ Warton said.

He waited, watching her.

Mooney thought she’d never before seen a more
unpleasant-looking
individual. She’d heard a good deal about him but the actuality was far more menacing. He wasn’t so much like a wart-hog as an intelligent rhinoceros, looking cunningly at her, before the moment of charge.

‘Well, you’ve rather taken me by surprise,’ she said.

‘Okay. Have a breather. Perhaps you’d like to tell me how you came to hear of these notes.’

‘I don’t think,’ Mooney said, her heart banging away, ‘that I would.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Mustn’t reveal my sources.’

‘If they’re criminal ones, you certainly must.’

‘Oh, must I?’ Mooney said.

‘Unless you want to be an accessory. Ought to know that. Journalist. Criminal case.’

‘Mr Warton,’ Mooney said, with a glad flourish of her
notebook
, ‘are you threatening me?’

‘Just explaining the law. Shouldn’t be necessary.’

He watched tolerantly as she busily wrote.

‘Do I understand you’ve just officially admitted that you
are
receiving these notes?’ she said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Am I the first you’ve –’

‘Yes. All to yourself, time being. Like that?’

‘Very much. Unless it’s by way of wanting tit for tat.’

‘No bargains.’

‘May I further ask, at risk of being greedy, if you’re ready to say that the notes refer to former residents of Chelsea?’

‘Haven’t seen anything in the
Globe
about that,’ Warton said.

‘Are you saying it?’

‘Not making any comment whatever,’ he said casually.

While casual, he was watching her quite carefully; her chest was rising and falling jerkily.

‘Perhaps
you’d
like to say,’ he said, ‘whether you have any sources other than the young lady at the library.’

In the breathy pause, Mooney said, ‘Old Brenda, eh?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Well, it must seem ungracious,’ Mooney said, after a while, ‘but I can’t tell you, Superintendent. Sorry.’

‘Have you given the
Globe
anything they haven’t printed?’

‘Can’t tell you that, either.’

‘There’d be no objection to your editor knowing you’d told me. It’s obvious I wouldn’t go and broadcast it.’

‘Pretty obvious,’ Mooney said. ‘You aren’t broadcasting much, are you? Perhaps if you had, Mrs Honey wouldn’t have been attacked.’

Warton watched her unwinkingly.

‘Have you any grounds for believing that?’ he said.

‘Have you any for believing otherwise?’

‘I’ll tell you what I believe,’ Warton said. ‘I believe your only source was that young lady in the library. I believe you did a bit of guesswork there, and your reports ever since have been based on it. Isn’t that about the size of it?’

‘Read the
Globe
, Superintendent,’ Mooney lightly told him.

He didn’t get up as she went.

He waited a minute and buzzed through for Summers.

‘Get all that?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Knows we had warning on Honey.’

‘Could be a flier, sir.’

‘Ng. Put a tail on her.’

‘Full-time?’

‘Have to. Three men, damn it, eight-hour shifts.’

‘Her phone, too?’

‘Needs permission. Always trouble there. Never mind,’
Warton
said. ‘I’ll do that.’

He did that, and saw the reports as they came in, and read the papers, and at seven went home.

But despite the maniac, life was still going on, including that part of it that concerned Denny’s possible entry to the world of
film. At seven Steve was in The Potters, awaiting Artie with a pint. Artie turned up at a quarter-past, with his briefcase.

‘Sorry I’m late. I wanted all the shit straight. Take a look at it,’ he said, before nosing into the pint.

The accounts, bound in a maroon folder, were immaculately typed.

‘Who did it?’

‘A chick.’

‘How much?’

‘Love,’ Artie said.

‘Well, it’s beautiful.’

‘I
tell
you,’ Artie said. ‘It’s fantastic. We’re already there, sweetheart. He’s going to query the wardrobe. It’s the one thing he knows about. That’s where we shuffle our feet and ask his advice. Is his partner going to be there?’

‘I don’t think so. He was seeing him earlier … Look, Artie, you know I think he’s only humouring us,’ Steve said. ‘I mean, don’t take off if he gives us a straight –’

‘I won’t take off,’ Artie said. ‘Quit worrying, Steve. We’ve gone a long way on sweet eff-ay. It’s a great job. I’m high on it today.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right.’

‘Sweetheart, don’t doubt.’

Steve was glad to see him out of his sombre mood, anyway, so he didn’t voice further doubts. He just went anxiously there and back over the accounts, bracing himself for the encounter with
Denny
.

Denny, some time earlier, had been bracing himself, too. There had barely been need to discuss it with his partner, Chen. A few words and a few looks had sufficed.

They had discussed it in the office, and then they had
discussed
some other affairs in the basement, and he had let Chen off the premises, and returned to his books.

When the bell had gone a few minutes later, he thought Chen must have forgotten something.

He went down to the front door and opened it.

But it wasn’t Chen.

‘Hello?’ he said, surprised at seeing his visitor.

‘Can I see you for a minute?’ the visitor said.

‘Well, just now busy,’ Denny explained.

‘Won’t take a moment, honestly. I’m after information.’

‘Information?’ Denny said, curious.

‘
Honestly
only a moment.’

‘Okay.’

Denny let the visitor in.

At a few minutes to half-past seven, Steve and Artie crossed the road from The Potters and walked to Blue Stuff.

‘Well, here goes,’ Steve said, and pressed the bell.

A minute or two later, he pressed it again.

‘Is that thing working?’ Artie said.

‘You can’t hear it down here. It only sounds upstairs.’

‘He hasn’t gone, has he?’

Steve stepped back on the pavement and looked up. The light was shining in the office above.

‘No, he hasn’t gone.’

Artie rapped on the glass door and tried to peer through.

‘Should we try the side door?’ he said.

‘We could,’ Steve said, puzzled. ‘Okay.’

They rounded the corner of Larkhall Street to the dustbins, and tried the bell there. Steve put his ear to the door this time, and heard it ringing. There was no other sound, so he banged a couple of times, and rattled the handle, and while doing it, opened the door. He looked at Artie.