The Chelsea Murders (16 page)

‘Good performance, Ted,’ the C.C. said, taking him on one side as the conference broke up. ‘I’ll try and get you an answer within hours.’

‘Within a very few, I hope, sir.’

‘It’ll have to go to the Director of Public Prosecutions, perhaps up to Home Secretary. Good show, though.’

‘Thanks,’ Warton said.

He knew it had been good. But he was still troubled, as he went to the car, by the suggestion of other forces. It was an alert, unstable, highly dangerous young criminal he had to take.
He wanted no one else involved in the encounter: no ambiguity of signals.

Rain had begun to gust viciously outside, and he watched the wipers flick there and back, thinking of all that could still go wrong.

B
LOODY
Wednesday again; and rain pelting the windows. It occurred to Mooney, nodding and scowling as she wrote, that she’d rarely felt wearier in her life.

‘Knitted bootees, eh?’ she said. The clot at the other end was feeding her yet another half-witted scheme for Christmas. She seemed to have dealt with about fifty thousand already. ‘Well, I can’t guarantee it will go in,’ she said, ‘but thanks, anyway.’

She hung up just as the office boy flung the last roll of proofs in. The elastic-banded scroll whizzed past her ear and fell in the wastepaper basket.

She could hardly bother with it, but out of old habit reached for the stuff and slipped the rubber band while checking the next item on her list. Fire service.

She picked up the phone and got on with it, straightening out the clammy proof pages as she did so. She saw that Normanby had finally made it this week. He’d been crowded out by the rising star of Bethlehem and its festival of advertising.

Fruity. There was a photo of the house in Glebe Place with diminutive Monty pointing indignantly at it.

While she dealt with the fire service she flapped over the damp pages.
The Week’s Weddings
: double spread with blocks in place. Property Notes.
Landladies Warned of ‘Artful Lodger
’.

Some solid crud to do with candles and paper decorations was coming out of the fire chief, and she let him go on for a bit,
tapping
her ballpoint, before realizing what she was reading.

‘Bob,’ Mooney said, a bit breathlessly to the fire chief, ‘it’s actually a bit early for Christmas hazards. May I come back at you nearer the time?’

She put the phone down and pored over the item.

Are they now? Mooney thought. In an unfocussed way she’d been groping in that direction herself. So that was the way of it. There was no indication where the story had originated, but she recognized the chief sub’s hand in the ‘artful lodger’. She took the page up with her to the subs’ room.

‘Artful lodger, eh?’ she said.

‘Like it?’ Sid said, not looking up.

‘You old fun-smith, you. Where’s it from, this story?’

‘Late phone-in, I expect.’

‘I might chase it. Special bouncing cheque offer for Christmas. Have you got the copy?’

‘Piss off, love, there’s a good girl,’ Sid said.

He had his direct-line phone to Dorking lying on the desk, and was rapidly rewriting lines for the stone-hand there.

Mooney located the copy herself: in the late pile, a phone-in, typed in the office, heavily subbed. At the top it said, Contact Sgt
Ackerley, Goshawk Rd
.

Okay, thought Mooney, and descended to her vehicle, beside the advertising department.

A very unpleasant ride through the rain to Goshawk Road, and a flash of her Press card, produced Sergeant Ackerley.

‘Morning, Sergeant. We’re following up the Landlady Swindler. Anything new there yet?’

‘What, are you out with that already?’ the man said. He was at his elevenses, and still chewing. ‘We only phoned it in
yesterday
evening.’

‘No, not till Friday. Press day today, though. We might just squeeze in a landlady or two.’

‘Well, we’ve got nothing here,’ the sergeant said. ‘It was Lucan Place asked us to put the story out to local papers – they were a bit pushed there. Why not try them?’

‘Okay. Thanks,’ Mooney said, and hiked off, at a rate of knots, back to the office, having learned all she needed.

Within minutes she was flipping through the back numbers. She found the week of Germaine’s death, and turned to the classified ad. pages.

Accommodation
(
Furnished
).

Her heart sank at the sight. The
Gazette
was the landladies’ special, and a good twenty column inches of stuff was on offer; and the same every week since. Still, it had to be in the two or three weeks around then.

Not least of the reasons for her present dejection was sheer fatigue. Wertmuller, now only a bad dream, had proved not the last of her disasters. After the search of her flat she had shot up to Fleet Street in a fine fury. The police had given no reason for the search but she’d assumed, recalling Warton’s threat, that they were after any unprinted stories for the
Evening
Globe
, with whatever other information she might have: a diabolical infringement of Press liberty! To her surprise, Chris’s interest had been strangely guarded.

To her still graver confusion, on hearing her offers to reveal more about the notes, he had rummaged on his desk and
produced
the Famous Residents list.

‘You don’t mean this?’ he said.

Mooney nearly fell off the chair.

‘We’ve been nobbled, love,’ Chris told her. ‘There’s a
cease-fire
on. They give us what they can, and we keep down the flack. We couldn’t even use the railway station stuff.’

‘Railway station stuff?’

‘Deposit boxes, all over London. Didn’t you hear of it?’

‘Oh, that,’ Mooney said. It was the first time she had.

‘Have you really got anything new?’

‘Well, I’m working on it, Chris.’ Mooney swallowed. ‘I have access to a lot, you know. Only I’d be happier with a staff job.’

‘I know you would, Mary. And Jack knows. We just can’t hire now. Of course, if you
really
get anything – who knows? But you’ve got some nice bonuses coming.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Mooney said, numbly absorbing his last ‘really’, with the related inference that they knew now how she’d fed them the story.

But he’d told her what they knew, which was roughly what she knew; so she’d gone home and had a good cry and three gins.

It was with the second gin, which pulled her together, that she had begun slowly to realize that she knew more than they knew. Brenda hadn’t appeared on the list of things they knew.

Except what the devil had Brenda to do with it?

Something, evidently. She recalled that in her interview with Warton, only two things had come from his end: one, his piece of bait about the notes; and two, his probing as to her sources other than Brenda.

He’d questioned Brenda, then. But why?

She was passing the library next day when Brenda skipped out for lunch.

‘Well, my goodness,’ she said with wonderful surprise. ‘That hair of yours is really a knockout.’

‘Is it really, Mary? My new bloke says so, too.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh, well, octopuses, wow!’ Brenda said, giggling.

She had a gay and chatty lunch with Brenda, and right
afterwards
called Frank; and went to see him. Frank would tell you anything.

What Frank had told her had sent her away reeling, fairly bow-legged.

The detective’s theory had been transmitted, via Brenda, to three people, all of whose flats had been searched (Frank was interested to hear that it was now four).

One of these people had to be the person sending the messages.

She was almost frightened to think of what this meant.

Frank had mentioned the costume, too; and her own
imagination
had supplied the rest.

Costume. Messages. Chloroform. The police had asked about her visit to the laboratory without in any way mentioning chloroform. But Mrs Honey had been
chloroformed
. Wu had been chloroformed. They had been looking for chloroform; and a costume. They had searched her place, and Frank’s and Steve’s and Artie’s. They evidently hadn’t found any of it.

But afterwards it had been used on Grooters; so it was still around. Obviously it wasn’t around in any of the places searched. It was around in some other place.

How the devil did you start looking for the other place?

It was at about this time that the colossal mental fatigue had set in with Mooney.

The ‘artful lodger’ story had shown her that others were
working
on it. But the idea had been dawning on her, anyway.

Racing rapidly through the Classifieds now, she realized she was slightly ahead of the field. For one thing the story had not yet appeared; it wouldn’t appear till Friday. Apart from the police, she was the only one who realized its significance. And she was also one up on the police. Almost certainly they would already have contacted all advertisers who had given addresses and phone numbers. That left box numbers. Perhaps, as well as feeding the Press this innocent story, they were also trying box numbers. If the police hadn’t yet contacted the newspaper to find out the names of advertisers with box numbers, it must be because they didn’t want the newspaper, or any other newspaper, alerted.

Mooney closed the file and went below to Advertising.

A nice girl called Pru with straight hair and brown eyes ran the box number department. ‘Hello, Mary,’ said this young lady.

‘Now, Pru,’ said Mooney, ‘we all know how clever you are, and all you have to do is show me how clever you are with box numbers. The management wants everyone to know what a terrific pull they have.’

‘Easy,’ Pru said, and showed Mooney all about box numbers. She showed her the file and the cards with all the names and
addresses of the people who had box numbers, and Mooney thanked her and worked late that night. Everyone had gone before she moved her bike from outside the advertising
department
.

A
T
three in the afternoon Warton got his answer and
immediately
yelled for Summers. ‘Right! Immunity for Chen – let’s go.’

They went to Wembley where Mr Chen, under surveillance for some hours, was in his warehouse.

Mr Chen came with rimless spectacles and a mild manner, and showed no surprise at the visit.

‘It’s about Mr Wu,’ Warton said, ‘and the message we
received
with regard to a sum of dollars he had. You’ll have read about it, I expect.’

Mr Chen said he had.

‘Delicate situation, as we all know. However, our only
concern
is to find Wu’s murderer. If it’s possible for you to help, I’m sure you’d want to?’

Mr Chen said that if it was possible he certainly would.

‘It has been officially decided,’ Warton told him, ‘to make no inquiries at all into any of Mr Wu’s other transactions. If any turn up, during our work, we can absolutely promise we won’t pursue them. Understand me, Mr Chen?’

‘Understand,’ Chen said.

‘It’s the murderer we want. And any money that was taken. Because whoever took it probably murdered him. Anything you can tell me about that, Mr Chen?’

Mr Chen looked at his hands.

‘As to money in basement –’

‘You know nothing about it. Know that,’ Warton said.

‘Exactly. However, in business, quite normal to keep dollars. Often needed.’

‘What denominations?’

‘Ah?’ Mr Chen said.

Summers coughed. They’d already agreed to split the job
between
them. ‘What we wondered,’ he said, having received a nod from Warton, ‘was whether, in going through his papers, you’d seen any reference to the money. The amount of it, and the actual value of the bills.’

Mr Chen continued gazing tranquilly at them.

‘Because if a largeish sum was involved,’ Summers proceeded steadily, ‘and if, for convenience, Mr Wu had kept it in large bills, the numbers might run consecutively. Any information on the numbers would be a big help in tracing them.’

‘Or,’ Warton said, ‘would also be a big help to know the numbers on either side – if for any reason there had originally been a much larger sum that had been split.’

Mr Chen’s nose wrinkled very slightly.

‘Rike some tea?’ he said.

They said they would.

Mr Chen picked up a housephone and ordered some, in Chinese. His instructions seemed lengthy for the supply of three cups of tea, but he put the phone down presently.

‘Tellible business,’ he said.

‘Yes. Any idea how we could get this information, Mr Chen?’

‘Thinking,’ Mr Chen said.

The tea came almost immediately, brought by a young Chinese. Chen had a few words with him as he handed it round, and the young man went.

‘Hope you rike tea,’ Chen said.

Warton and Summers didn’t like it. There was no milk or sugar in it. However, they sipped it.

Mr Chen sipped his.

‘No, Wu kept no information rike that,’ he said, having evidently thought sufficiently. ‘However, I know he kept only hundled dollar bills.’

‘Are you sure of that – all in hundreds?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Chen said. ‘And new ones. Large sum in new one hundled dollar bills – plobably consecutive?’

‘Yes. How many are we thinking of?’

‘Twenty-five,’ Mr Chen said, adding gently, ‘should think.’

‘Would be very useful, of course, to have the numbers of any – adjacent bills. Realize the difficulties. Though none from our end,’ Warton said significantly.

‘Understand. Tly.’

‘Yes, well, he’s got rid of his,’ Warton said as they returned to the car. ‘Point of that phone chat – to see if any still around. He’d help if he could. Still – it’s something, Summers. On to the next step now.’

The next step, because less private, had all day been
generating
difficulties at the Yard. But after several hours Warton managed to get a form of words agreed, and Information Room put them out.

The agreed form was that the police now had details on twenty-five numbered bills of a hundred dollars each, stolen in the course of murder from Blue Stuff. All currency dealers and exchanges were being advised. It was unofficially understood that no action would be taken against ‘informal’ dealers who came forward, and nor would the money be confiscated. The police interest was in murder, not possible currency offences.

‘Should freeze the stuff, anyway,’ Warton said. ‘Nobody will come forward, of course. But if he’s changed any, he’ll soon be getting aggro. We don’t let him out of view now. Mason in place?’

Mason had been in place since eight o’clock, when he took over the late shift. It was now some time after nine, and he was jiggling his drink as he kept an eye on Artie, and on the
sodomites
who were dancing all about.

He was in the gay club, Shaft.

The interior of Shaft was a sultry red from the paper moon lanterns, but the dance floor was a swirling mass of stripes from the psychedelic slides in the reflectors. The place smelt like a barber’s and was very hot; also fairly exploding now to the thud of hard rock. Though early in the evening, it was already pretty full, and Mason was glad of Artie’s hair style, which meant he could keep him in view without sticking close.

He did move a bit closer, though, discreetly elbowing his way, as Artie moved. Artie was gesticulating at the lights to the manager; a respectable elderly poof, face well preserved behind black executive glasses, except that it was powdered and rouged.

As Artie stopped, Mason stopped, and saw from his watch that it was a quarter-past. He casually transferred his glass to his left hand and with the right felt in his trouser pocket and pressed the beeper there. He kept hold of the instrument, which was switched to ‘silent’ and awaited the single answering pulse. His partner outside was watching the fire escape and the rear exit. Mason’s job was the interior and the front exit; neither
presenting
any difficulties. The enormous first-storey club-room was approached by a single flight of stairs with a wicket gate at the top; two burly bouncers carefully examined membership cards and photographs there.

Mason’s credentials had been in order (though quite new and obtained rapidly through special channels, despite the club’s long waiting list).

He got the answering pulse and removed his hand.

‘May I buy you a drink?’

An eager young fag, very pert in urchin cut and ear-rings, had accosted him.

‘Got one, thanks,’ Mason said, showing it. ‘Just waiting for a friend.’

‘Sorry,’ said the young fag politely.

Quite. They were terribly polite here. After his first,
acclimatization
, shock, Mason had seen that. He’d thought he might feel like hitting the first one who propositioned him, but he hadn’t felt like that at all. They were so polite, and all terribly nice; ‘gay’ the word. There was a sensation of excited gaiety in the air, not so much of abandon as of release, as if pressures were lifted and they could be what they wanted to be. What they seemed to want to be was gay and dressed-up. Eyes shone all around.

Artie seemed to have become stuck in a long and contentious discussion with the manager, who was worriedly shaking his head, one finger on long upper lip; so Mason settled on his heels and looked about him.

Five or six hundred people were in the huge murky barn of a place, a hundred or so on the dance floor, others chatting around or lounging on banquettes. A line of young male prostitutes fringed the dance floor, braceleted hands clicking, slim hips jiggling. There was a sprinkling of lesbians about. One, very dramatic in sombrero and high boots, was threading her way through the crowds, casting long looks. Another stood
immediately
in front of Mason, handsome in black velvet cloak and pearls; except that when she turned, Mason saw it was a man, quite beautiful with green eye-liner and silvery evening purse.

Mason gave him a smile, and received in return a haughty toss of the head and, presently, a backward puff of smoke from a long cigarette holder. But he had to move again. Artie was moving; up the couple of broad steps that led to the lounge and dining area.

Tables were spread here, and banquettes grouped as pews for greater intimacy. A little necking seemed to be going on, but not much, the prevailing atmosphere almost of marital
propriety
; partners’ hair being smoothed, collars adjusted. A grave young couple, both mandarin-moustached, quietly sat and held hands as they drank in one pew. In another a raffish threesome sprawled; one of them, high safari boot cocked on a table, for all the world like a dissolute young buck just in from hunting.

Mason saw Frank suddenly. He was with his Indian friend. He also saw that Artie had seen Frank; and that Frank had seen Artie. After the briefest of glances, they turned away.

Hello-hello, thought Mason … But he had to stick to Artie, who was now moving well out of range of Frank. He was moving to the buffet table. Some further argument seemed to develop over the buffet table, and Artie and the manager
disappeared
into the latter’s office.

There were no problems with this office: only one door to it, as Mason knew. He had studied the layout. He kept it in view, however, and when Artie reappeared followed him again.

He hung around in the club till a little after eleven, when Artie left. He had been keeping up the quarter-hour sequence of signals, and he gave the double one now, and on his way to
the door received the double answering pulse that meant his partner was making his way to the front.

He gave Artie a couple of minutes and went out himself.

The unmarked police car was already on the corner of the street.

‘On foot,’ his partner said. ‘Turned into the King’s Road.’

Mason turned into the King’s Road, too; and when Artie picked up a cab, himself got into the trailing police car.

By half-past eleven, Artie was home and Mason in position at the front of the house, his partner at the rear.

They stayed there till half-past three, when they were relieved and driven back to Lucan Place. Mason made his report there in the Incident Room, and then was driven home; and on the way back remembered he’d forgotten to mention Frank.

He was so tired he couldn’t think if the incident, or
non-incident
, was important or not. But tomorrow was another day; except that it was already here.