From Murder To A Cathedral Read online

  But they did. No one could dispute that there was much more evil in crime than there had been.

  Now, going through the reports, he found himself seeing each case in the light of this new thinking, aware that Scott-Marie was largely responsible for it. There was a week-old murder investigation - a girl raped, mutilated, strangled. Beastly but not new, commonplace in many parts of the world long before Jack the Ripper had frightened half the women of London. So far, there was no clue to the killer. Next, a post office holdup in which a woman had been attacked when trying to call the police; not uncommon, either. Third, a case of an old man, penniless, set upon by half a dozen youths and beaten to the point of death. Ugh! Savagery. One of the “new” types of crime. The three young girls, poisoned. No one knew why, no one had any idea by whom; but Gideon, highly sensitive, was afraid that before long the body of a fourth might be found - perhaps tomorrow, which meant that tomorrow’s corpse would be today’s living, vital body. Of all the cases, Gideon was most troubled by this. There was the murder of Mrs. Entwhistle, a commonplace enough crime. And there were the church “offences”.

  It was time he told Lemaitre about that assignment.

  He made a few notes and pushed the pile of reports away from him; as he did so, the interoffice telephone bell rang.

  “Gideon.”

  “Can you see Golightly soon?” asked Lemaitre.

  “Yes. Where is he?”

  “In my office.”

  “Send him in,” ordered Gideon. “Wait a minute, though, make a note of this while I think of it. We could do with a consultant on freak or fringe religious sects - there must be some specialists about. Find one.”

  “Okay, George,” Lemaitre promised.

  Gideon put down the receiver as another telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver again impatiently.

  “Gideon.”

  “Will you speak to Superintendent Rollo, sir?”

  “Yes.” Gideon saw Golightly come in, and waved to a chair. He was opening the Entwhistle murder file as Hugh Rollo’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Can you spare me twenty minutes, Commander?”

  “When?”

  “Any time you like.”

  “Four o’clock,” Gideon said. “We’ll have a cup of tea in my office.” He rang off and gave his familiar half-rueful smile to Golightly. “Made an arrest yet, Percy?”

  “Not yet,” said Golightly, in a slightly guarded voice.

  “Anywhere near?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised—” the Superintendent’s tone conveyed an ambiguity that might be hiding a tenuous but jealously held clue, or might, on the other hand, merely cover a cunning hope that Gideon would think so—”if the husband isn’t our man.”

  Gideon made no comment but remembered Lemaitre’s jumping to the same easy belief in the husband’s guilt. He would be elated if it did indeed prove to be the answer.

  “Geoffrey Entwhistle has been away for three years - only home for a couple of weeks each Christmas. A neighbour told him that his wife was often out in the evenings. Wifey—”

  “The dead woman?”

  “Yes,” said Golightly, taking the implied rebuke in his stride. “She left home two or three times a week, looking radiant—”

  “Whose word?” asked Gideon.

  “A neighbour’s.”

  “The neighbour?”

  “The original talebearer, plus three others we’ve questioned today. Moreover Margaret Entwhistle was seen in nightclubs with a man - the same man - fairly frequently. Entwhistle received an anonymous letter just before coming home, telling him about this. He says he didn’t tackle his wife about it; that he was no saint himself when away from home, and that he was as much in love with her as ever.”

  “Any evidence?” Gideon asked.

  “At least one terrific quarrel with her, two days ago.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Two neighbours and the eldest child, a boy of eleven. George,” went on Golightly, his lips curving, “I am not doing a Lem on you.” Gideon grunted. “Entwhistle went home at eleven o’clock last night. He left Leicester at half past seven, came down on the Ml motorway and reached Lewisham just before eleven. His Jaguar two-and-a-half litre was seen by a Divisional policeman. Two neighbours saw him go into the house, then come out very agitated a little before twelve o’clock. He drove off from the car park at the end of Billitter Street and didn’t get in touch with us until after three o’clock. All of these things can be proved to the hilt. In a way, I wish they couldn’t.”

  Gideon pursed his lips. “Then why haven’t you charged Entwhistle?”

  “I wanted to see what you thought. I know you don’t like circumstantial evidence.”

  “From what you say,” temporized Gideon, “this is the strongest circumstantial evidence we’ll ever get.”

  “I think it is.”

  “But you’re still doubtful,” Gideon said. “You want to pass the buck.”

  Golightly frowned a little; his voice softened disarmingly.

  “You really do know me, George, don’t you?” It was the second time that day that Golightly had dropped into the familiar “George”, although there was an unwritten law that familiarity should not be encouraged on duty. “I’m far from sure about Entwhistle. It looks black but—” He broke off.

  “You have a feeling,” Gideon said dryly. From any other senior policeman the remark would have been derisory.

  Golightly looked faintly like a boy caught out in a misdemeanour.

  “Yes. I have a feeling. It looks right, it feels wrong.”

  It would be easy to ask why, but impossible for Golightly to explain. It would be a grave mistake to ridicule the feeling, too; many a good detective had a nose for the truth. Gideon contemplated the rather blank-looking Superintendent for some time before saying, “Bring Entwhistle here for questioning, and I’ll have a look at him. If he doesn’t want to come, charge him. Tell the press—” He broke off, suddenly shocked, for the word “press” reminded him that he had promised a statement to the newspapermen about the Cathedral robbery but had forgotten. He made a pencilled note, grunted, “Reminded me of something,” and went on. “Tell the press he’s being held, and encourage them to think we suspect him. Then if there is a lover—”

  “No doubt about that,” interpolated Golightly.

  “Well, in that case the lover might - if he is guilty - give himself up,” Gideon said. “It’s one thing to commit a murder and quite another to let an innocent man swing for it.”

  “But they don’t swing these days,” Golightly corrected gloomily.

  “Metaphorically they do,” said Gideon crisply. He wondered if it was expecting too much, or not enough, of the murderer. A practiced criminal, a professional, might stand by and allow another man to be charged for a crime he had committed, but an ordinary citizen who had committed a crime was not likely to. The tension of waiting, the burden of guilt, usually impelled such a man to make some admission - sometimes by giving himself up and confessing, as often by writing or telephoning anonymously to the police or a newspaper. But it was by no means automatic. Gideon ruminated over what had been said. In any case, he would soon be able to form an opinion of Entwhistle himself.

  “What about the children?” he asked.

  “Still with grandma.”

  “Seen them?” asked Gideon.

  “Yes. That’s how I heard about the quarrel. The eleven-year-old had told his grandmother and she told me.”

  “The wife’s mother?” Gideon inquired.

  “Yes. And she can’t wait to see the son-in-law who deserted her daughter for three years charged with the murder. No love there, George.”

  Gideon said wryly, “So I see.”

  Golightly, reading dismissal in the air, pushed his chair back and stood up. Gideon watched him go, then lifted the telephone and asked for the Back Room Inspector. When the man came on the line, Gideon said, “There’s nothing special about the St. Ludd’s theft for
the press. Tell ‘em so, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gideon rang off and crossed to the window, looking out onto a troubled Thames. The sun had gone, clouds were low, the wind was high. It looked almost wintry. He pushed up a window as Big Ben began to strike four, and he thought regretfully that when they were in the new building he would miss Big Ben. He heard the door open, knew it was Rollo, but did not look round immediately. The door closed. Rollo did not call out but moved to the desk rather stealthily; he was in some ways the most self-confident man at the Yard, and no respecter of persons. What was he up to? When Gideon turned, Rollo was swivelling round at the desk, smiling.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “What’s it all about?” asked Gideon.

  “A kind of guessing game,” said Rollo.

  “I don’t much like guessing.”

  “I’d be glad if you would have a look at these, though.” Rollo motioned to a dozen or so photographs which he had laid out on the desk, and Gideon went across; there was no particular reason for discouraging him.

  Each photograph was of the head, shoulders, and bosom of a girl. Each girl, in her way, was attractive; some were beautiful. Some were dark, some fair. All were quite remarkably well-developed, all posed so as to show their breasts to fullest advantage. As far as Gideon could judge the nipples had not been touched up; these were natural.

  “What’s the question?” he asked.

  “The common denominator,” Rollo said.

  It would not be the obvious one - sex; but nor would it be particularly subtle, being posed by Rollo. Smothering a laugh, Rollo produced a dozen more photographs, laying them out with great precision. Except that each was of a different girl, they were almost identical. Size, he wondered? Bust measurement? Age? Age. They were all very young, very well-developed for their age, which was probably in the middle teens.

  “Age,” he said. “Sixteen, seventeen? And the same dark background.”

  Rollo almost guffawed. “Trust you,” he said. “Right on the spot. Commander, I found one thousand and ten photographs round the walls of that cellar, and these are the nicest of them. Some of the others are obscene by almost any standard. There were thirty-two different models in all, each one young, no known professional models or prostitutes among them. Our three dead nudes would fit in the pattern easily. Their photographs weren’t included, but could well have been. What’s more, these are all prints. I couldn’t find a single plate or negative - and I couldn’t find any duplicates, either. See what I’m driving at?”

  “Other cellars, full of them,” hazarded Gideon.

  Rollo was startled. “Er - well, yes. I was really thinking of the original cellar or studio, where these were taken. You’ve noticed the little speck in the corner of each background, and there’s a good chance they were all taken at the same place. I’d like to charge the chemist’s assistant who developed these under the Obscene Publications Act, and talk to him.”

  “What’s stopping you?” asked Gideon, momentarily exasperated; had every senior officer chosen today to evade his responsibility?

  “He’s packed up and left his lodgings,” Rollo said simply. “This wouldn’t normally be a charge with a general call but I’d like to see him as soon as I can.”

  “Put out the call and the description,” Gideon ordered, abruptly. He went on almost as if talking to himself. “A lot of young girls, a lot of nasty poses, good pay or some kind of inducement or persuasion - they all seem happy enough - in fact they look very dreamy, don’t they?”

  “George,” said Chief Superintendent Rollo, the second man to break the unwritten law of names and titles that day, “I really do hand it to you. Dreamy is the word. So you see the common denominator and why I want that chap pulled in.”

  “You’re afraid that drugs are being used.”

  “Could be.”

  “Get him,” said Gideon. “I don’t like that possibility at all.” He moved to the desk, sorted through some of the files, took out those on the photo-nude murders, and read through the summary: “Clear indications of (purple hearts) in each blood sample. Dose not large. Probably taken within an hour of death.” “Yes,” he went on. “Get these devils quickly.”

  He thought again of the dread possibility that some young girl, lovely and full of life and as beautiful as any of these, might be the next victim of the same murderer.

  Such as Sally Dalby.

  8: FRIGHTENED MAN

  Geoffrey Entwhistle was a very frightened man.

  He recognized himself as being in the grip of a web of circumstantial evidence which already almost precluded a chance of escape. Fighting for his life, he was shocked to discover that in his deep concern for himself there was hardly a thought in his mind for Meg or his children. Meg was dead and the children were in the care of a woman who disliked him but would do her duty by them - whereas his own problem was terribly urgent and pressing.

  He sat in a bleak, bare room at Scotland Yard, where he had been for over half an hour. Standing by the door was a youthful-looking man in plain clothes; outside was a policeman in uniform. There were a table, two hard wood chairs, and a Bible; that was peculiar, a Bible. No one spoke to him, but on the desk was a newspaper, the Evening Echo, with a photograph of Meg.

  The door opened sharply enough to make him jump. The detective who had already questioned him twice came in, alone. He was a little too smooth, a little too honey-tongued. In this gloomy room, his eyes seemed full of menacing shadows. He closed the door behind him as Entwhistle stood up.

  “You may sit down.”

  Entwhistle dropped back into his chair. It was too small for him, for he was a tall, bony man, his cheeks pale with the pallor of the tropics, his aquiline features sharpened by anxiety. His eyes were tired, and the lids drooped.

  “I want to ask you some questions,” Golightly said.

  Entwhistle said wearily, “More questions? I tell you I know nothing about my wife’s death.”

  “If you don’t, you have nothing to fear,” said Golightly.

  The bloody fool! thought Entwhistle, ivory pallor flushing in powerless anger. I know nothing about it and yet there’s a hell of a risk that I’ll be found guilty of murder. Isn’t that enough cause for fear?

  Golightly, seeing the colour suffuse his cheeks, made a mental note: that Entwhistle was truly frightened.

  “This time,” said Golightly, “we are going to take questions and answers down in shorthand. Have you any objection?”

  “No.” Get on with it, thought Entwhistle.

  “Did you kill your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Did you return home at about eleven fifteen last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you leave again about an hour later?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you report the death of your wife at three o’clock this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you untruthfully state that you had returned home at three o’clock, found her dead, and then telephoned the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I - I don’t know.”

  Without a change of tone, without the slightest hint of impatience, Golightly asked again: “Why did you lie?”

  “I still don’t know.”

  “Was your wife alive when you arrived home at eleven o’clock?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I held a mirror in front of her lips, tried her pulse, and felt for her heart. There was no sign of life. I gave her the kiss of life, without success.”

  “Are you a qualified physician?”

  “No, but I am fully trained in first aid.”

  “When and where were you trained?”

  “In London, before taking up my appointment in Siam. Becoming fully proficient in first aid was a condition of the appointment.” Entwhistle answered a
lmost automatically. “I took a twelve-month part-time course with the St. John Ambulance Brigade and have their certificate.”

  “Thank you. And you are quite sure your wife was dead?”

  Entwhistle drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Did you telephone for a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I saw no point in doing so.”

  “Why didn’t you notify the police?”

  Wearily, Entwhistle answered, “I still don’t know. I suppose I was in a state of shock. I couldn’t really believe it.”

  “What precisely do you mean by ‘it’?”

  “That my wife was dead.”

  “Thank you. What did you do on making this tragic discovery?”

  “I went to see my children. They were all asleep, and obviously they didn’t know anything was wrong.”

  “Thank you. What did you do after seeing if the children were all right?”

  “I wanted to think. I just went out.”

  “Leaving the children to wake and find their mother dead?”

  Entwhistle did not answer the question, but stared intently at Golightly, as if at some new kind of anatomical specimen; and the detective kept silent, perhaps because Entwhistle’s expression affected him.

  “Let me ask a question,” Entwhistle said. “Have you any children?”

  “No, but the question is immaterial.”

  “I think not,” said Entwhistle brusquely. “If you had children, you would know that little short of an earthquake would wake them at dead of night, once they were asleep. There wasn’t a chance of them finding their mother.”

  “So when you left, you intended to return before long?”