The Chelsea Murders (14 page)

He felt engulfed in a huge wave of depression, and wondered how he was going to manage.

It was a late night in the restaurant.

The presence of the tail outside maddened Artie.

It was late, very late, before he finally got to bed, in his back bedroom in Putney. It was actually Saturday morning.

T
HERE’D
been a bit of rain in the week which had brought the slugs out, so on Saturday Warton got down to them. They were busy at his wallflowers, so he baited heavily there. He observed a persistent slug turning steadily from the bait. He watched it for a while, and deployed cunning.

Slugs didn’t like fingers. Warton gave it a finger. He laid it on the soil, and saw the slug change direction away from it, and did it again, and continued doing it, until the small creature made its own way to the bait.

That was the way of it. He could have crushed it easily. But why should he, when with encouragement the little bastard did the job by itself? Finesse.

‘Teddy – phone!’ Rose called.

Eh? First Saturday morning he’d had off for three weeks. He made haste to the house and took the phone.

‘Okay,’ he said after listening, ‘coming in. Let Chief Inspector Summers know.’

He hopped out of his gardening togs, and in ten minutes was heading along the Purley Way into town.

Summers, coming only from Clapham, was ahead of him.

He already had the
Oxford
out, and at the right place, alongside the message, on his desk. The message simply said:

Warton followed Summers’s finger to the full quote:

‘Of Gilbert and Sullivan, sir,’ Summers informed him.

Warton stared at it. ‘A two-liner,’ he said. ‘It looks hurried. When was it posted?’

‘Late last night. So the postman thought, anyway. It was top of the pile when he opened the box, first collection this morning. Street box, back of Putney.’

‘W.S.G.,’ Warton said, and mused. ‘Summers, is the litde shit having us on?’

‘Which little – Oh.’

‘Get his cards.’

The cards on
GIFFARD
,
Walter Stephen
were brought in, and Warton spent some time studying them. Then he studied those on
JOHNSTON
,
Arthur
and
COLBERT-GREER
,
Frank
.

One of the three had sent it. And each one, without question, knew he would be familiar with the initials. He was being had. He was being taunted.

The Liverpool police had provided several fresh entries on Artie. He had a bit of form there; in younger days a tearaway, the odd charge of violence.

Colbert-Greer’s cards he knew like the back of his hand, so he didn’t bother with them overmuch.

Again he studied Giffard’s.

‘Well, I’m damned if I know,’ he said.

‘If it’s him, sir, he’s playing with us. If it isn’t –’

‘– he’s next on the list.’

‘Sailing a bit near the wind – these initials.’

Warton brooded. ‘Get him,’ he said.

Steve was brought out of a crowded shop.

He was no less collected than when Warton had seen him last, but a trace of strain showed under the cockiness.

Warton watched him carefully.

‘Have you run into any trouble lately?’ he said.

‘Well, I could do without a few of these conversaziones, Chief. Tend to dislocate the day, you know. And the night. Or have you got something else in mind?’

‘I’m asking if you’re aware of any conflict with a particular individual – personal, professional, emotional. Any reason you might have to suspect anyone of meaning you harm.’

Steve paled; Warton saw it.

‘You haven’t had one of these messages about me, have you?’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Well, I read the papers. If you call me in and – Is that it?’

‘That’s it,’ Warton said. ‘Anyone you can think of?’

He saw the young shit thinking.

‘No,’ Steve said at last.

The colour had drained from him.

‘In that case I must offer you protection.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘An officer will follow you.’

‘Uniformed?’

Oh yes; cocky to the last. Warton had seen from the reports that Steve was aware of being followed.

‘That’s it,’ Warton said. ‘Wherever you go, he’ll go with you. Twenty-four hours a day.’

‘Togetherness,’ Steve said.

He managed quite a cool smile.

Warton watched the door after he had left.

What the hell, he wondered, was going on here?

Steve was sure he’d betrayed no emotion, but he was in a state of some turmoil. He wondered how secure the protection was. He was glad, looking out during the course of the day, to see the copper there.

A different one followed him home, and after a shower and a meal, he put in six solid hours at the editing. The stuff wasn’t bad. They had over-compensated at the labs for the
under-lighting
, so that it looked now flash-lit and grainy. But the green tone would cover it. He saw Abo in the crowd scenes. Abo.
He suddenly remembered that he’d meant to contact Abo. He hadn’t by any means given up Abo as a useful contributor. Well, he’d call him tomorrow.

He compared and cut and spliced till two in the morning, and then packed in. He was tempted to take a breath of air to see if his protection was still there, but he knew it would be, and he had a splitting headache, so he went to bed.

He took a short walk in Battersea Park after breakfast on Sunday morning, and the policeman took a stroll behind him. Then he got back to it again.

He was interrupted by calls to the phone out in the hall during the course of the morning. It was Frank and Artie calling to confirm the time for the evening. He didn’t know if he was going to be through by eight, but he told them the time still stood. The stuff was looking terrible to him now, and it
depressed
him. But this was a familiar enough reaction after the long grind. He had put in four hours on Friday night, six on Saturday, and already three by lunchtime on Sunday.

After lunch he took a break and went out to buy sandwiches and beer for the evening, his faithful attendant following; and after a nap huddled again over the viewer. By seven he was dizzy with it, so he stopped and had a drink and put a few records on the player. The sound of Elton John blasting out
revived
him a bit, and when he returned to the viewer the stuff looked much better. Also there wasn’t so much of it left: the final crowd scenes, bobbies strolling. He saw Abo.

Abo. He remembered he’d planned to phone him. It was just gone half-past seven. He had a wash and threw the towel on the bed, and collected himself, and went out to the hall. He
wondered
where Abo would be. The others would already be on the way.

Artie had been on the way for some time. All day he had been oppressed by the presence of his tail, so he thought he would give him a trot. He was out early, walking from Putney High Street the full length of the New King’s Road.

The pubs had opened, and when he got to Stanley Street he thought he’d have one at The Gold Key. With no surprise at
all, he saw that within a couple of minutes his tail was in there with him: buying himself a lager-and-lime in the saloon, where he could keep an eye on him across the bar.

Artie chatted a while with the landlord, Logan, and sipped his pint, and presently placed it down. ‘Watch that,’ he asked him. ‘Just going for a leak.’

The tail waited two minutes and went for a leak himself.

The Gents’ was empty. He tried the outer door and found it unlocked, and went frantically out. Stanley Street was empty, too. The tail hared round the corner into the King’s Road. But Artie wasn’t there, either.

Steve’s first coherent thought, on finding himself safely back on his own side of the door again, with the thing slammed and the chain on, was that he had better get a tourniquet quickly. Blood was simply pouring out of him. With his left hand he felt in his right pocket and took out a handkerchief and got it round the arm, above the elbow. He screwed the handkerchief tight, and looked at the blood still coming out, and heard himself sobbing a little. The blood was all down his shirt and trousers. It had soaked into the carpet by the door.

He could hardly believe it had happened. The students were in the refectory, eating. A few might be drifting back by now, or they might not … He thought of his protection out at the front. Great protection.

Grills had been fitted to all the windows at the back in the past few weeks, and his bedroom and bathroom were there, so he thought this ought to be all right. The curtains were drawn in his bedroom, and he found the towel on the bed there, and wrapped it round.

After a minute or two he thought he had better get water on it, and went to the bathroom, and ran the cold tap and put his forearm under. The blood swilled away under the jet, streaking his hand and the bowl. He could feel it hurting now, the lips of the wound gaping. He was cut almost to the bone. He had barely felt it before; just a quick keen slice.

He didn’t know if it was such a great idea to hold the wrist
under water. He could lose an armful of blood. He held the arm up and swathed it round with the towel again, and got another towel, and wrapped that round, too.

He was confused by the noise from the record-player. Elton John was still blasting away. It hadn’t occurred to him to turn it down, and he went and did so now, and looked around bewildered. His clips of film were still hanging from the
makeshift
hooks; the viewer still on. He switched it off, and tried to think what to do. Someone had to turn up soon.

He thought he heard a movement outside. It could be students returning from dinner, but he wasn’t sure so he waited, listening, and presently there was a tap on the door.

He said breathily, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Frank, Steve.’

It sounded like Frank.

‘Are you alone, Frank?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see a policeman as you came in?’

‘A what?’ Frank said.

‘There’s a copper out there, Frank. He’s either in the garden or on the street. Will you go and get him?’

‘Steve – are you all right?’ Frank said, after a pause.

‘Just go and get him, Frank.’

‘All right,’ Frank said, in a strange voice, and went.

Steve waited with his arm in the air. The outer towel had begun to turn slowly pink. Now he could feel it; it had really started now. He felt suddenly very sick.

‘Steve?’

‘Have you got him?’

‘I’m here. What’s the trouble?’ said another voice.

Steve clumsily released the safety catch and opened the door. A huge policeman in a helmet looked curiously in; Frank lankily peering behind him.

‘What on earth is it?’ Frank said, staring at his enormous towel-wrapped hand, and the bloodstains.

Steve tottered back a few steps and sat down suddenly. ‘Get me a glass of water, Frank. I was attacked,’ he said to the
policeman
.

‘What –
when
?’ the man said.

‘Minutes ago.’

‘But he’s the only one come in,’ the policeman said.

‘He came in the back,’ Steve said.

‘It’s locked at the back.’

‘Okay,’ Steve said, and thirstily drank the water Frank brought him. ‘That’s where he was, anyway. I went out to use the phone, and he was at the back door, at the rear of the hall. I don’t know if he was coming or going.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Oh, well, Christ,’ Steve said. ‘He had a cape on. He was all wet.’

‘It isn’t raining out there.’

‘Look, hadn’t you better go and get some policemen?’ Steve said. ‘He could still be here.’

The policeman couldn’t get any joy out of his walkie-talkie inside, so he went out.

‘Shut that door, Frank,’ Steve said, ‘and lock it.’

Frank did this.

‘And the safety catch.’

He did this, too, and said, ‘Do you want a drink, Steve?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ, so do I,’ Frank said.

He poured a couple of Scotches. The constable rapped on the door as he handed Steve his.

‘It’s open, the back door,’ the man said, on admittance.

‘Great.’

‘What happened?’

‘I just – turned and saw him,’ Steve said. ‘I thought it was some sort of joke. He had this mask on.’

‘Stocking mask?’

‘No, a
mask
. It was that one of ours, Frank – something like it, anyway. It seemed a bit different. It was all wet, all of him, this sort of cape, and boots. Rubber boots. It’s funny how you react.’ The drink had worked immediately on him. He felt
light-headed
. ‘You feel crazy, just running. I mean, he didn’t do
anything
. I ran, though. I ran like hell.’

‘So would I,’ Frank said.

‘He came after you?’ the policeman said.

‘When I started running. I mean, I don’t know if he would have done. I’d left the door a bit ajar, thank Christ. I got in and closed it, but he was right there, and he pushed it in. I mean, I got the safety catch on, but he whacked down through the gap.’

‘With a knife?’

‘It wasn’t a fairy wand,’ Steve said. ‘Christ!’ He supported the arm. ‘Have they got a doctor coming?’

‘I told them you were injured,’ the policeman said.

‘Wow!’ Steve said, rocking it a bit. ‘It wasn’t actually a knife, though,’ he added, hissing, after a moment. ‘It was something like a little – saw. I think. I only just glimpsed it.’

‘Could you give a description of him, like height or build, eyes, anything like that?’

‘Maybe,’ Steve said. ‘After a bit. This thing is going like hell.’

‘Okay, leave it for now. Sorry.’

‘I wouldn’t mind another drink,’ Steve said.

‘You’re awfully pale, Steve,’ Frank said. ‘Like a sheet. Do you think you’d better?’

‘I’ll have a drag, then.’

Frank lit him one, and soon afterwards the first police car arrived. Artie arrived at about the same time.

Steve saw his face peering in behind the detectives.