Death in Albert Park (20 page)

“Heatherwell?”

“He doesn't often come in but I know who you mean.”

“There's a man named Crabbett who comes from Bromley. His wife was one of the victims.”

“I've only known who it was since it happened. He
used to come in from time to time—perhaps once a week. But since his wife died its most nights. What about Reg Titchcock, the caretaker from the school?”

“All right,” conceded Carolus. “That's about all. What I chiefly want to know is who talks with whom, if there are any serious conversations going on.”

“You shall.”

“And anything else you notice. This is very good of you, Mr. Chumside.”

“That's all right. It suits me to get it out of the way, too. The Law don't seem to be getting anywhere.”

“Oh, does the doctor ever come in?”

“Who? Ribbing? Now and again on Sunday, he does.”

“Add him to your list then. And I suppose you don't know … how could you, though …”

“Who's that?” asked the landlord sharply.

“The first woman to be killed had a brother. An actor who rides a motor-bike.”

“No. I don't know him,” said Chumside regretfully. “Live here, does he?”

“No. Blackheath.”

“Not likely to come in here then.”

“I thought he might have come over for his sister, perhaps.”

“Not that I know of. She never came in here, anyway. Not according to her picture in the papers. That's the lot then?”

“Yes.”

“Nice little job you're giving me but I'll do what I can. You've chosen a good night, Sunday.”

“It's not only tonight, I'm afraid. Next week as well.”

“We must see,” promised Chumside turning away to serve another customer.

Carolus had not seen Heatherwell that day but when he reached number 32 he did not find him. Gone to the Mitre, he supposed.

He returned to the Mitre at 10:15 as he had been instructed and knocked at the back door. He soon found that Chumside had entered all too fully into the secrecy and drama of his role for after Carolus had waited some minutes the door opened ajar.

“Is the Law around?” Chumside asked.

“No.”

“All right. Come in. Don't make a noise. The wife has gone to bed.”

They went to a small bare room.

“Well, we
have
had a night of it,” said Chumside enjoyably when they were settled. “Nearly all the lot in and that Heatherwell carrying on like a lunatic.”

“I'm afraid he's not very well-balanced,” said Carolus.

“Balanced? He's off his rocker. He hadn't even had a drink this evening, or not more than one or two, when he started.”

“Started what?”

“Started talking about doing for himself and I don't know what not. If you ask my opinion he's not all there. One minute he was laughing at the top of his voice and the next he was telling someone he wished he was dead. That's no way to talk on licensed premises. I had to tell him in the end. ‘Don't start talking like that in here, Mr. Heatherwell', I said. ‘Because I don't like it and my customers don't like it either'. He shut up a bit after that.”

“Did he say anything about his wife?”

“Yes. His wife had left him. He was all alone. All that.”

“No one at his house?”

“No. That was what was worrying him.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Not till just before closing time. He seemed to have calmed down a bit then.”

“Who else was in?”

“That Goggins came in as he very often does. Doesn't say a lot but when he does its like a judge talking. And Tuckman who was laying down the law of course. On about what the police ought to be doing to catch this Stabber which I didn't think very nice with Jim Crabbett, whose wife was murdered, sitting there listening. But that Tuckman's one of them who always knows.”

“Was the doctor in?”

“No. He didn't come in this evening. But Slatter from the park was here.”

“Did he say I talked to him this morning?”

“No. He was talking again about his not being able to sleep. It's not the first time, either. He's tried everything for it, he says. He puts it down to something he got in the war. He doesn't half go on about it.”

“He's another one who lives alone, isn't he?”

“Yes. Seems there's something to be said for married life, after all, doesn't it? Old Jack's lived alone in that little lodge ever since he came here. Doesn't even have anyone to tidy up for him. I tell you who was here tonight, though. That Turnwright. He's the one who wouldn't have anything to do with these Vigilantes when they was formed. He's a funny chap, Turnwright. Very funny. The way he talks about these murders. Thank goodness the doctor wasn't here and Crabbett had gone when he began. ‘I hope this Stabber hasn't finished before he gets my old woman', he said. ‘I tell her to take a walk every evening about eight or nine on the off-chance, but there's no luck so far.' Of course it's
only talk. I couldn't help smiling but the wife said I ought to be ashamed of myself. He's a character, really.”

“Did White hill come in?”

“I believe he did for a minute. You scarcely know whether he's in or out. He doesn't say anything. Just enjoys his one or two gin-and-ginger ales. But I'll tell you who
was
in tonight. That Titchcock from up at the girls' school. He'd got plenty to say for himself, as usual. But nothing on The Subject.”

“What about young Gates?”

“I haven't seen him all the evening. There was others, of course. We've been very busy. But no more on your list. One or two women, tonight. With their husbands, that is.”

“I never asked you before,” said Carolus. “But do you get a man called Pressley in. From Salisbury Gardens?”

“Used to do,” said Chumside. “But I haven't seen him for a long time now. Someone told me he'd started going to the King's Head. Well, its nearer for him, I suppose. No, there's nothing more I can tell you tonight.”

“There were no intense conversations?”

“Not really. They seemed to sit round, if you know what I mean, tonight. Slatter had a few words with Goggins over on one side. I believe Whitehill and Heatherwell were together for a moment. But nothing to notice.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Chumside. You've been very helpful. I really think I'm getting somewhere and what you have told me is truly important. It may even be a matter of life and death. May I come and see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. We don't close till eleven, though.”

At number 32 Carolus found Heatherwell perfectly sound and calm.

“I rather lost my head tonight,” he told Carolus.

“Yes. In the Mitre.”

“So you know.”

“It's my business to know what goes on. That's why I've come to stay here.”

“I don't know what made me go off the deep end tonight. I really don't. I'd scarcely had a drink.”

Carolus refrained from expressed sympathy or concern for several reasons, one of which was that they might bring floods more psychotic confidences. He contented himself by saying—“Do you have any trouble with sleeping?”

“It's funny you should ask that,” said Heatherwell. “You'd think I would have, wouldn't you? All that tension and everything. But not a bit. I usually sleep like a log.”

Carolus envied him. Lately he had been lying awake for hours before he slept. The case was worrying him far more than any other. He was oppressed by his inability to do anything decisive quickly enough. He and the police seemed almost to be waiting for the murderer to strike again.

But tonight he felt exhausted and sleep came, though fitfully at first, soon after he had got into bed, certainly before midnight.

Then suddenly he was awake. He was aware of the curious fact that he knew what had awakened him though he had not consciously heard the sound. Someone had rung the front-door bell.

Carolus moved swiftly and silently. He pulled on a dressing-gown and a pair of soft bedroom slippers. He
was glad that he had never used those sloppy things with backs trodden down in which one could not move fast without noise. He glanced at his watch, 12:25.

The house seemed very still. Carolus gently turned the handle of his door and opened it a crack. Everything was silence.

Again the bell rang. This time it brought sounds of hurried movements from Heatherwell's room. Loud sounds of movements, too. Heatherwell was evidently not trying to be quiet. It was almost as though there was something hysterical in the way he moved about. His door burst open and Carolus heard the flap-flap of his slippers as he sped downstairs. There were sounds of a chain being taken off and bolts pulled back then the door opened.

Carolus came right out on the landing and listened but he could only hear one side of the conversation—Heatherwell's high-pitched voice raised in surprise, and some excitement, but not in exasperation at having been awakened at this time.

“Oh it's you. Oh, good-evening,” he heard Heatherwell say, and after a long pause in which all that was audible was a hoarse suggestion of whispering—“Very kind of you. Thank you. But it's quite all right.”

Whisper.

“Oh no, really. Perfectly all right now. Very good of you.”

Whisper.

“Did I? Yes, I'm afraid I did. But…”

Whisper.

“Oh no. Did I really? How awful. But I'm absolutely all right now.”

Whisper. Whisper. Was there a touch of urgency in the sound?

“Thank you. No. No. I'm not alone. Yes. There's someone here.”

Whisper.

“Did I say that? It wasn't quite true, so far as this house is concerned. I've got someone staying with me.”

Whisper.

“No, I won't. Of course I won't. It was very good of you to come.”

Whisper.

“No, I promise I won't. I quite understand. You don't need to worry. I can keep a promise.”

Whisper.

“Yes. Sure. Thanks again. Very kind of you.”

Brief whisper.

“Good-night.”

The front door was closed and bolted again but Heatherwell did not immediately come upstairs. Was he watching from the dining-room windows to see his visitor depart? Or having a drink to recover from the shock of this encounter?

Carolus listened tensely but heard no car being driven away. Then as Heatherwell started slowly climbing the stairs he noiselessly closed his door. He waited till Heatherwell was in his room, then went back to bed.

This time, for several hours there was no sleep for Carolus. What he had overheard seemed to him the first really reliable pointer he had received. Now, like the people of England after each of the early defeats in the second world war, now he knew where he stood. With sudden ease everything fell into place and before he slept he had a solution. It was not cast-iron, it still needed fortifying, but it was a tremendous advance on his previous makeshift theories. The Stabber of Albert
Park, that chimera of the popular press, was no longer a vague shape but a reality with characteristics if not features plainly discernible.

In the morning Heatherwell brought him a cup of tea as usual.

“Someone call last night?” asked Carolus with an affectation of indifference.

Heatherwell hesitated, then said—“Yes. A bore. I had just got to sleep.”

“Anything wrong?” yawned Carolus.

“No. It was only young Gates.”

“Really? What did he want?”

“I was supposed to be with the Vigilantes last night, that's all. I'd forgotten all about it.”

Carolus saw two possible ways of learning the truth. He might flatly accuse Heatherwell of lying and try to scare it from him. Or he might wait till he had seen young Gates and, facing him with proof that it was a lie, work on from there. He believed he knew the identity of the caller but it was essential that he should know it without doubt. For that matter it might conceivably have been young Gates but if so his call had nothing to do with the vigilantes. He decided on the second course and seemed to lose interest in the whole affair.

“I should have thought the vigilantes were growing sick of the job by now,” he said stirring his tea. “Looks quite a bright morning,” he added.

Heatherwell seemed relieved to find Carolus leaving the subject and offered him another cup of tea.

Because he liked to follow up each point as it occurred he decided to call on Gates as soon as Heatherwell had left. He knew Heatherwell was one of the earliest among the city workers in Crabtree Avenue and with any luck
would have gone to the station while Gates was still at breakfast.

In fact he found Gates preparing to leave.

“Really, old man,” Gates protested. “This isn't quite the time to call, is it? I'm willing to give any help I can and all that, but eight-forty-five! Are you out for information again? Wait while I get my coat. You'll have to walk down the road with me, I'm afraid. I'm in a rush.”

Carolus obediently followed him into the open air.

“Now what is it you want to know? Don't tell me there have been any more phony confessions?”

“Do you remember what time you went to bed last night?”

“Yes. Early. Why?”

“You didn't go out? After, say, ten, I mean?”

“Out? No. Goggins and Tuckman were on duty last night. I had a bit of a cold and my old people insisted that I should go to bed.”

“You didn't have to see Heatherwell about anything?”

“Heatherwell? No. What on earth's this about?”

“Just checking up on something. I suppose Goggins and Tuckman would have been together last night?”

“Not necessarily. We've cut down watches now to seven to eleven. It didn't seem worth covering the avenue for any more. All the murders were within those times. So probably Tuckman and Goggins would do two hours each. Say Tuckman from seven to nine and Goggins from nine to eleven. Something like that. Why?”