From Murder To A Cathedral Read online

  Thank God for that! thought Gideon.

  If anything was calculated to show that Hobbs had a heart as well as a head, this was it. He chuckled and Scott-Marie visibly relaxed. Hobbs knew that he had said the right thing.

  Sally Dalby was a long way from sure that she was right; in fact she was afraid she had both spoken and acted unwisely, but she did not see how she could get out of it now. She sat alone in a cubicle in a cellar in North London, half undressed, nervous, and ashamed. She heard Toni Bottelli moving about in the main part of the cellar, and she could hear the background music of a radio. Everything seemed so ordinary and normal, yet here she was, actually undressing so that a man she hardly knew could take her photograph.

  “I’m just a prude,” she muttered to herself; then almost at once she thought, what would Dad say? She unrolled one stocking as far as the beautifully soft and rounded calf of her leg, but stopped suddenly. “I can’t do it!” She spoke very clearly and precisely. On impulse she rolled the stocking up, snatched her skirt from a hook and drew it on, zipped it with an almost feverish motion, and stretched out for her blouse. She had it half on, arms thrust backward into the sleeves, bosom thrust forward, when the man she hardly knew pulled the curtain aside roughly and demanded: “How long are you going to be?”

  It was the expression on his handsome face, far more than his words or his manner, which touched her with fear.

  6: CHILD IN TERROR

  Toni Bottelli stood glaring at Sally, and suddenly she felt worse than naked: she felt besmirched. His expression changed from impatience and anger to lustful gloating; she could not mistake that for an instant. She backed away but there was so little space, and her hands knocked painfully against the wall.

  Bottelli raised his eyebrows. “Take your time.”

  “Toni, go away.”

  “What a hope!”

  “Leave me alone, I want to get dressed!”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea, Sally old gel. You want to get undressed.”

  “No, I - I won’t! I can’t!”

  “You can’t?” mocked Toni, and there was a harsher note in his voice. “I’ll help you, if you like.”

  “Get away from me!”

  As she stood there in terror she had no idea how beautiful she looked, with her honey-brown eyes shining with that fear, the long lashes curling against her fair skin, stained now with a defiant flush. Her lips were parted, and her teeth just showed; she was on the verge of shivering. All she knew was that she was desperately afraid of him. She was seventeen, and although she had known the exploring fingers of youths of her own age, she was a virgin, with all a virgin’s dread of violence; yet this man’s will to violence showed in his very face, in the tautness of his body. An older woman or an experienced one would have taken one glance at him and warned: “Don’t trust him an inch.”

  If he lays a hand on me, she thought, I’ll die.

  She did not, she could not, know how true that might be. She simply sensed some horrible and impending danger.

  Her shallow breathing reached a climax and she began to gulp and gasp. She was aware of it and was now frightened by the feeling of suffocation, knowing that she had to move away, that her body was going limp, her legs beginning to tremble. She thought hysterically: why doesn’t he do something, why does he just stay there?

  Being so young, she did not notice the almost imperceptible change in his expression, the way the glitter in his eyes began to fade, or the way the taut muscles at his lips relaxed. Now the screaming of her nerves and the choking difficulty of her breathing brought her to the verge of collapse. Her lips began to quiver, her teeth to chatter, quite beyond control.

  Suddenly, Bottelli said, “Relax, baby.”

  She hardly heard him.

  “Relax,” he repeated, and moved to take a robe of gay towelling from a peg on the wall. “Put that on. I’m not going to touch you.”

  She could hardly believe what he was saying.

  “Take it easy.” He backed away a pace, holding the gown out for her to put on. When she did not move, baffled by the change in him, he tossed it at her and moved away. “What you need is a drink,” he said over his shoulder.

  A tremendous sense of gratitude flowed through her, of release, as if some drug had been injected into her veins and was moving through her blood stream, warming, soothing. His back was toward her. She shrugged the shirt-blouse on, the buttons defeating her unsteady hands, pulling the robe tight, tying the sash. There was a couch against one wall, the only one not covered with photographs. As she moved toward it, her legs still weak, she heard the chink of glasses. When she dropped down, Bottelli turned round, holding two glasses. Walking toward her, he was the man she had first met and thought so handsome, with his beautiful black hair and his olive skin, his luminous dark eyes set against black lashes and brows. He was rather small, but beautifully formed, which was particularly obvious because he wore only a dark, short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans.

  He stood over her, holding out a glass.

  “Here’s to you,” he said.

  She took the glass and sipped. It was whisky. Suddenly it flashed through her mind that drinking whisky so early in the day was a very dashing, grown-up thing to do, and she felt a little giggle rising within her.

  “Here’s to you,” she said.

  “That’s my Sally!”

  They both drank, more deeply.

  “What got into you?” he asked, and his manner, his tone of voice, everything about him had changed; she was aware of it without even beginning to understand.

  “I - I don’t know, Toni.”

  “Scared of me?”

  “Course I wasn’t!”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  “I know I don’t.”

  He lowered himself to the edge of the couch, beside her.

  “You never will have to be scared of me.”

  “I know,” she repeated.

  “Not now, or ever.” He sipped, and gave a little quirk of a smile, a most attractive one, the kind which would have lulled the suspicions of many an experienced woman, and melted the resistance of most others.

  Sally looked puzzled, in her naive and simple way.

  “What do you mean - not now?”

  “What I say, Sally.”

  “You mean—” her eyes looked enormous - “I did have reason to be scared of you?”

  ‘You certainly did.”

  “I - I don’t understand you.”

  His smile, so attractive and winsome, became much wider.

  “Take a look in the mirror,” he said.

  After a moment’s pause she caught the meaning of the compliment, and gave a pleased little laugh.

  “Don’t give me that!”

  “Go on, look in the mirror. There’s one on the wall.”

  She looked round at the array of photographs, which had shocked her when she had first come in, making her nervous and starting the tension which had brought her to revolt. There was no sign of a mirror, although she knew there was a small one in the cubicle.

  “What wall?” she asked.

  “Don’t believe me, eh?” Toni scoffed.

  In the nicest possible way he patted her knee, got up, and crossed to the wall opposite the cubicle. It appeared to be a solid mass of photographs and she coloured a little, because some of them were in peculiar poses. There was one of a girl, naked, back to the camera, legs apart, bending down and peering between them, long hair falling almost to the floor. Sally did not want to look too closely at this or any of the others, deciding comfortably that most of them were no worse than the coloured photographs one could see on the bookstalls in the West End, remarkable for outsized breasts and tiny waists.

  “Here you are,” Toni said brightly.

  He put out a hand, pulled at a small knob which she hadn’t noticed, and a section of the wall folded back revealing a full-length mirror. With a start of surprise she saw herself in the colourful gown, fair hair a little untidy, even t
he fringe out of place, eyes starry and cheeks flushed.

  “Now you have to admit, that’s something,” Toni Bottelli said.

  “Oh, go on!”

  “I knew you had something the first moment I set eyes on you,” he declared. “I’m more than a photographer, they’re two-a-penny. I’m an artist, too. Got an artist’s eye for a figure, and it takes more than a blouse and skirt to fool me. You want to know something? I’ve been an artist photographer for nine years, and in my considered opinion I’ve never seen anyone with a better figure than yours.”

  That pleased her greatly, but she protested.

  “You’ve never even seen it.”

  “I can tell.”

  “You’re just flattering me.”

  “What’s wrong with a bit of flattery, Sal?” He slid his arm round her waist and squeezed, then moved away toward a camera which stood on a tripod at one end of the room. Opposite this was a raised platform, draped in black, and two silken cushions, beautifully coloured; beyond it a low stool with an iridescent cover of pale sea-greens. “I know I’m right, though.”

  “I’ll bet you say the same thing to every girl who comes in here.”

  “Oh, well,” said Toni, off-handedly, “if you don’t want to believe that I think you’ve got the most beautiful body I’ve ever come across, I can’t make you. And I certainly don’t want to take your photograph if you don’t want me to. Get dressed and buzz, baby! I’ve got to get myself another model.”

  He began to whistle.

  Sally went into the cubicle and stood very still for a few seconds, piqued and even annoyed at the sudden change in Toni’s manner, yet still intrigued and flattered by his compliments. Near her were several photographs in black and white of quite lovely girls; there was no doubt of the artistry in the pose and the shadows, they were beautiful. If she was better than they were, it was really something. Toni ought to know if he had taken all of these pictures. Why, there must be thousands! And he was an artist, everyone knew that artists were used to seeing models in the nude; what was it her mother sometimes said? In the altogether. Funny old Mum! And Toni couldn’t have been nicer; once he had realized that she was worried, he had been ever so understanding. She must have been quite wrong about him.

  Her eyes lit up as decision came upon her. She stripped off the robe, then her blouse and bra, then her stockings and belt. Soon she stood naked, except that a tiny gold chain and cross were about her neck - a gift from her mother, two birthdays ago.

  She hesitated; then unfastened the chain, slipped it off and put it in her handbag. Excitement had bubbled out of her fear. She moved back and studied the photographs in the cubicle to select a pose which seemed to set the model’s body off best; one hand on her hip, one just covering the nipple of her breast, head tilted backward. She practiced several times, aware of movements in the studio, another ting of a telephone. Suddenly she realized that Toni might really be sending for another model. Thrusting the curtains aside cautiously, she stepped out. He was still busy on the telephone, sideways to her, talking in earnest undertones. She crept toward the platform, watching him, but he seemed not to notice. She stepped onto it and struck the pose, with only a momentary qualm.

  That did not strike her as strange. Her heart was light, and she felt quite exhilarated as she gave what she hoped was a professional model’s smile. Toni replaced the telephone and glanced up.

  He gaped.

  The effect was exactly what she had hoped for: staggering. My, how handsome he was! Sitting there, looking upward across the room, lips parted, eyes rounded. After what seemed a long time, he let out a long, slow breath.

  “Was I right,” he breathed, so that she could just hear. “Was I.”

  He began to stand up, slowly.

  She felt wonderful; wonderful.

  “Am I all right?”

  “Are you! I knew it - the moment I set eyes on you I knew it, you’ve got the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen in a woman.” He moved slowly forward, his gaze raking her and finally coming to rest in the valley between her breasts - where the cross had rested. “You’re going to be the most famous model in London,” he promised her. “Now, I know exactly the right pose for you. Not that one, you want one made especially for you. Posing a model is like being a choreographer, you know - arranging a ballet. That’s what you are, really, a ballet of the body.” He climbed up onto the platform and put his hands on her arms. “Now, let’s see. I think I’d like you reclining. That’s right, reclining.” He exerted sufficient pressure to make her lean backward, but he supported her. “I’ve got to get you in a dozen positions, first, to make sure which is the best.”

  The strange thing was, she did not mind his hands.

  Soon, she was reclining. He left her, fetched a camera with a close-up lens and began to take pictures from all angles, all positions. Now and again he would pause to adjust her position, and she held whatever pose he made for her. Finally he allowed her to relax on her back, the cushions arching her body slightly. . .

  When he came to her, she was nearly asleep; drowsy, happy, aware of what was happening and yet oblivious, too.

  In the cellar at Fulham, on the other side of London, Hugh Rollo was saying to the knowing sergeant: “None of the three we’re after, then. That’s a pity.”

  “Can’t have all the luck,” remarked the sergeant.

  “No reason why we shouldn’t hope for it,” said Rollo. He spoke absently as he moved about the studio, glancing at the photographs as a mass, now, not individually. “We counted over a thousand. How many different faces?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Thirty-two,” echoed Rollo. “And two out of three taken in a pose that would get anyone who published them locked up for obscenity.”

  “Or exhibited them for profit,” remarked the sergeant smugly.

  “Notice anything else?” asked Rollo.

  “They’re good photographs.”

  “Not that. A common factor.”

  The sergeant grinned. “Female form divine,” he suggested.

  “Age,” prompted Rollo.

  “Age?”

  “Late teens, middle teens.”

  The sergeant frowned and began to look again; after a few seconds, he said, “Now you come to mention it, yes. There aren’t any older women here - all young girls.” He scowled suddenly, angrily. “I’ve got two teen-age daughters.”

  Slowly, Rollo said, “I don’t know whether I have, but Gee—” he paused and corrected: “Gideon has. Just about make him mad, this will.”

  “What will?”

  Rollo said: “I’ll tell the Commander what I think, you work it out for yourself. There are two things,” the Superintendent went on. “They’re right under your nose. Don’t miss ‘em.”

  7: GIDEON PROPOSES. . .

  Gideon was in a much livelier and more normal frame of mind that afternoon. Some of his problems had been resolved, several decisions had been made, leaving his mind free to cope with the new cases which were going through. So that he could have time to concentrate, he did not tell Lemaitre all that had been decided when he left the Commissioner’s office, but simply said, “It’s Hobbs,” and went into his own office. He had some slight misgivings about Hobbs’s motive in recommending Lemaitre; it could have been out of a sense of humanity and good will, it might have been because he genuinely felt Lemaitre to be the right man, and it could possibly be that Hobbs thought it would please him, Gideon.

  Gideon turned to the reports on his desk. Two more had come in, and there was a request from Golightly: “Spare me ten minutes this afternoon, if you can.”

  Gideon made a note to send for him at half-past three. Then he lost himself in the cases that were being investigated, the ever increasing volume and the ever increasing variety of crime. Discounting those crimes induced by new and irritating laws which were not his to question, most of the increase seemed to him to be due to three causes, at least one of them seldom considered in the sociological surveys an
d reports.

  There were more people: the same crime ratio for a population figure of forty million inevitably meant more actual crimes in a population of over fifty million. A five per cent increase in crime in ten years was hardly an increase at all.

  There were too few police: the establishment of every force in the country was below strength, some of them seriously. Here at the Yard the Criminal Investigation Department establishment wasn’t too bad; they could use more but were no longer seriously undermanned. The uniformed branch was, however; and the deterrent and preventive effect of the policeman on his beat or in a patrol car still could not be calculated, although it was very important indeed.

  There was the third major factor which only a fool could ignore: the actual increase in crime because more and more people were prepared to rob their neighbours. Even if one made every allowance for the first two factors, this third was the most significant and the most ominous. More people were cold-bloodedly prepared to break the law; and while by far the greater proportion of criminals were the old lags and the professionals who were mostly unintelligent and habitual, there was this new breed to contend with: the clever criminal who planned not only his crimes but the disposal of his loot and his way of life, so that capturing him was extremely difficult. There were not a great number of these men, but they took up the time of the police out of all proportion to their numbers. Below this intellectual level of criminals there were still many more prepared to live a life of crime for its own sake. The majority of these appeared to be the products of a welfare state which had created living standards the lack of which the social pundits had once believed to be the basic cause of crime.

  In the old days, when the Bow Street Runners had been formed and Fielding had wielded both influence and power, most crimes had been committed out of desperate need. In the present time, most were committed out of greed and the desire for an easy life, or out of some neurotic or psychopathic factor that found in crime the thrill of excitement or a sadistic pleasure in violence and pain. This was the ugliest aspect, and one against which Gideon had steadfastly fought; he simply did not want to believe that some of the worst instincts of man asserted themselves in a modern society.