The Chelsea Murders (21 page)

Three of the fragments were the same; earlier or later attempts. The thing was a draft: word order identical, the only difference in hand-writing or spelling. Fred’s lodger had worked carefully to produce a semi-literate accusation against someone; against a black from the Colston Street area.

Artie lived in Colston Street.

Mooney saw the pattern suddenly, and it wasn’t such a terrific surprise, but her heart was thumping so she gave herself a stiff brandy before calling Artie.

There was no reply from Artie, so she tried the restaurant. The restaurant said Artie wasn’t working that night. She hung up, and tried Steve. There was no reply from Steve.

All this time Frank was in the lockup but Mooney didn’t know it, or the matter might have seemed less urgent to her. As it was she gnawed her nails and tried out a few intros for the story of a lifetime; and at half-hourly intervals tried the pair again.

But she gave up at one o’clock and went to bed, her brain racing. On this night of all nights, where the hell were they?

On this night Steve and Artie had suddenly, almost
unbelievably
struck lucky. Isaacs, the distributor, had a colleague in town from Los Angeles. In the afternoon he’d organized a showing of what they’d done so far, and the man was crazy about it. ‘Oh, the kids will love it!’ he exclaimed.

He had become so expansive he’d invited them to dinner, and after dinner he wanted to see it again.

Isaacs had a small projection room at his home in St John’s Wood, and around midnight they’d sat and watched it again. Artie was by now very nervous and too ready to explain some of the shortcomings, but the man had cut him off. ‘Kiddo, relax. You’ve really
got
something – a whole new line of gags. What do you need for completion?’

In the cab going home, Artie said, ‘Am I dreaming?’

‘Am I?’ Steve asked. I’ll tell you one thing – that’s where the heroes come from.’

The hero had guaranteed them completion. He’d put down ten thousands dollars already. After the sums they’d worked with, it was almost overkill.

Very early in the morning, Mooney got Artie.

He couldn’t at first understand what she was talking about.

‘What time is it?’ he said.

‘Seven o’clock.’

‘Shit, I’ve hardly slept.
What’s
so urgent?’

‘I can’t tell you now, but believe me it is.’

He was blinking himself awake. On his bedside pad he’d made a few notes before hitting the pillow.

‘Make it at one, then,’ he said. He had nothing for one,
lunch-time
. The pad was solid both sides of one. Ten thousand to spend!

‘
One
? Look, I’ve got to see you right away!’

‘Sugar, right away I’m going back to sleep. Is one good or not? It’s all I’ve got.’

‘Artie,’ Mooney said recklessly. ‘Someone is fixing you.’

‘For what?’

‘You know …’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Artie said crossly. ‘Mary, I’m through with all that. You know the pigs are on this phone? Do you want one o’clock or not?’

‘Okay, I’ll have it. At my flat.’

‘But I’ll be in town then.’

‘
Please
Artie. At my flat!’ Where the tape recorder was.

Artie stroked his great globe. ‘Well, okay,’ he said. ‘And I got news for you, too. A better story, baby.’

‘Great,’ Mooney said, and hung up and called Steve.

It took longer to get Steve.

He seemed slightly stupefied when he came to the phone.

‘You what?’ he said.

‘I’ve already spoken with Artie,’ she repeated, ‘and he knows the urgency. He’ll be here by one.’

‘Well, okay … I mean, Christ, Mary. It’s a bit early now, isn’t it?’

‘Listen – is this line all right?’

‘The line?’

‘Is it bugged?’

‘Bugged?’ he said stupidly. ‘I don’t know. The whole hostel uses it. What are you talking about, Mary?’

She said, ‘Steve, don’t – just don’t tell Frank about this. I can’t – Look, be here.’

‘Where?’

‘At my flat!’ she said. She wanted to shake him. ‘At one o’clock. Have you got it?’

‘I think so. At your flat. At one. Okay.’

‘Be here!’ she said.

There were a thousand things to do. The
Globe
had to be alerted. Art department: photos of the house. If enough people were available it might be possible to find where the ‘carnival mask’ had been dumped in the Colston Street area by ‘the black’. There was a bio to be written; also one on his famous father. Oh boy!

Rapidly sluicing herself under the shower, Mooney thought of all this, and was glad it was still early.

M
RS HESTER BULSTRODE
awoke early, wondering if it was her bladder that had wakened her, or the strange smell in the room. Her hand groped for the transistor and switched it on.

‘… has again called for union support in its policy of pay restraint. And the weather men promise more rain.’

Yes, and so they might. It was going cats and dogs out there, she could hear it. Maybe that had affected her bladder. She urgently rose, shrugged herself into dressing-gown and slippers and shuffled out of the room, transistor in hand.

She had her own little bathroom, but there was no lavatory in it. She’d asked the Indian fifty times, had shown him where one could go, wouldn’t mind paying a bit extra for it. And much he cared! She still had to use the public one in the hall. At her age.

She remembered to shoot the bolt, and sat and listened to correspondents sounding off from all over, Washington, Moscow, Tel Aviv. God knew what they were all up to in the mad world. The only improvement in it was her transistor, which at least let her know things were no better elsewhere.

It hadn’t really been so urgent, her bladder.

It must have been the funny smell in the room, then.

She could still smell it, although it was fainter.

Strange. The men had come and looked at the boiler yesterday, and hadn’t found anything wrong with it. Must be something wrong with her nose.

She sniffed and pulled herself together and returned to her room.

She could definitely smell it. Stronger now. Was it petrol?

She couldn’t ask the men back again. Not after they’d just been. She wondered if anyone else could smell it.

No use asking that Colbert-Greer above. The pansy.

She got back in bed and tossed and turned restlessly.

A chap was going on about Bangkok.

Anyway, the young pansy above wasn’t there. She could usually hear his bed creak. She hadn’t heard him last night, either. She never got to sleep herself till about two, dozed and woke; but she always knew when he was there. Him and his boyfriends. What a world.

There was a man going on about the world food situation.

She suddenly remembered, a faint crumb of pleasure, that she could make herself a bit of toast for breakfast this morning. The grill hadn’t worked for weeks, but the pansy above had fixed it for her. He’d told her not to use it till today. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all …

She dozed off, still sniffing, knowing it must be her nose, wondering if she’d feel like breakfast, anyway.

Frank had porridge for breakfast and sent his compliments to the chef. ‘I’ve not had it since nursery days. Very tasty,’ he told the solid fellow in blue, ‘and just the stuff for lads. I must get his recipe.’

He was in good spirits, and only regretted that they’d given him a rather hard nylon toothbrush. ‘Have to watch one’s toothy-pegs,’ he’d told this same fellow, who had very slightly bared his own at the remark. ‘But when am I going to see your Superintendent?’

He had made it sound as if the duty of the official named was to watch them rather than him.

But for this meeting, though he remained cheerful – knowing they’d find nothing, at least of the kind they so paramountly hoped to find – Frank had to wait.

Even earlier Warton had been alerted to the additional
evidence
now very rapidly building up.

The clock was an hour earlier in Munich and the stuff had started coming through before the last shift was off. The duty inspector had called Warton, and read the message. The subject Heemskerk (born, etc., passport number, etc.) had been driven back to Munich late the previous night and was going through her papers. They would be transmitted when available.

Before he left home, Warton had phoned in himself, and had found one of his own inner team reliably there. The fellow had noted that the stuff was coming through in Dutch and had already made arrangements to have a Dutch translator on hand.

There was an air of solid business when he arrived; Summers now there and assembling the material.

‘There’s no stopping them, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re sending every bloody word she ever wrote.’

Grooters had written seven letters to her friend Nellie, all of which she had kept, and all of which were being painstakingly transmitted, with frequent breaks for repetition of uncertain passages; the language unfamiliar to the man at the other end of the telex.

Warton cast an eye over the early pages as he sipped his coffee. It was coming in sheet by typed sheet from the translator in the Incident Room.

Grooters was happy to say she felt a perfect Londoner. She had a quaint flatlet in an old English mansion that had belonged to a Sir Arthur Comyns – the Comyns Hall of Residence in the address. The Albert Bridge Road was named after Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, and she could actually see the bridge, gracefully spanning the Thames and beautifully lit up like a Christmas tree. At the art school everybody was most helpful and courteous in the English manner …

‘Ng … How’s the mail?’ Warton said.

The mail was productive, too. Three of the landladies
approached
through box numbers had replied. One had returned the cheque, another had kept it as a deposit, saying that rooms were frequently available since the house was conveniently close to the West London air terminal.

‘West London? A bit far out,’ Warton said. ‘How’s that?’

‘This particular ad. went in all editions, sir. Eight papers.’

‘Unlikely … What’s this?’ He was looking at the third.

It was headed 67,
Sevastopol Street.

It was signed
N. Ruddle
(
Mrs
).

‘That one,’ Summers said, ‘seems to me a possible, sir.
Between
Albert Bridge Road and the power station – rundown area.’

Warton carefully read it.

As he did so, he felt the thing almost move in his hands, like a water-diviner’s rod.

He suddenly knew it was going to happen today.

N. Ruddle of Sevastopol Street said that a room had that day suddenly become available.

Yes, the clever bastard had seen the Press story; had got the point. So the room had suddenly become available. One jump ahead. Not a very long jump.

The phone rang while he was reading, and Summers answered and handed him the receiver. ‘Commander, sir.’

‘Yes, George,’ Warton said, certain now that more was on the way; the bastard no doubt throwing crackers in all directions.

‘Ted, does Colston Street mean anything to you?’

‘Colston Street?’ He could see Summers nodding at him; but knew himself all too well. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Johnston lives there. The black.’

‘He does, eh? Well, get a car there fast.’

‘What’s –’

‘Anonymous letter. Don’t waste time. It’s on the way to you now.’

‘Okay,’ Warton said, and hung up, and gave Summers the instruction; and with Summers out of the room, re-read the letter. Then he got up and found Sevastopol Street on the wall map.

Yes. Had to be. Dead right. Between the power station and the Albert Bridge Road. He saw the whole thing shape suddenly.

Summers came in, and so did the letter from the Yard. Illiterately addressed:

Inside, a similarly illiterate scrawl.

He looked at the envelope again.

Postmarked the day before yesterday.

So had the H.B. letter been.

But that one had been sent first-class mail which had meant he would get it yesterday.

This one had been sent second-class – and to the
nonsense-sounding
department at the Yard – which had meant he wouldn’t get it till today.

After Colbert-Greer was safely in the lockup.

He brooded over this.

‘What’s he got to say today – below?’

‘Asking to see you, sir.’

‘Is, eh? Where’s Artie.’

‘Tailed from his home ten minutes ago, sir … That car ought to be at Colston Street by now.’

‘Okay. Handle it. You’ll need more people. Want it gone through with a toothcomb, that street – any kind of rubbish tip, empty house, things like that. If they find anything, go yourself, immediately.’

‘Right, sir.’

Warton had himself hooked up, on his corner speaker, so that he could listen to the operation; and he sat and smoked, hearing the cars and his Incident Room crackling away to each other in short bursts, and reading yesterday’s reports, also this morning’s; as well as the fresh sheets that came from the
translator
.

He saw that Grooters had not approved of the clay-modelling at Chelsea Art School. Pages later, she’d at last laid hands on hammer and chisel. Pages after that, she had developed a sudden interest in art history. The lecturer was amusing, the son of the famous portraitist (wrongly spelt, Colbert-
Grere
). He was
acquainted
with Dutch art and often spoke with her.

About ten-thirty he suddenly heard it on the speaker.

Summers looked in to say he was on the way.

They had found it: quite a haul.

Minutes later, the absolute clincher came: from next door. It was so perfect, he could scarcely believe it. He had the date of the letter checked again. But the sense was so clear, it could hardly be in doubt.

He saw the bastard still had room to wriggle, though.

He let events take their course. He left him on his own.