A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3) by Granger Ann Page B
Authors: Granger Ann
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they know about this so-called River Wraith?
‘If I had to guess, sir,’ I offered, ‘when the story of a woman found strangled in the park was printed, one of the street girls went to a reporter and sold him her story of the River Wraith for a guinea. Now it’s open season and reporters are all hunting girls who have a story about the River Wraith to tell.’
‘Just what I feared!’ groaned Dunn, rubbing his head. ‘We can increase the men on foot patrol in the river area. But if this deviant is seeking his prey in the parks as well . . .’
‘We still don’t know, sir, that he really does exist, or that he is our murderer. Daisy Smith, the girl I spoke to, told me the Wraith had his hands on her neck. There was no mention of a cord.’
‘So he has changed his modus operandi,’ grumbled Dunn.
‘Why should he do that, sir?’
‘Why, man, because the girls had been escaping him! He meant to make sure of his next victim.’
The possibility had already occurred to me, but I had had time to think it over and to dismiss it.
‘In that case,’ I objected, ‘why should he use the two different methods on the same night? He put no cord round Daisy’s throat.’
‘Do I know what’s in his head?’ roared Dunn. ‘We are dealing with a madman! The next victim may be attacked with a knife, for all we know. He’s not a rational being, Ross.’
The River Wraith, to call him that for want of a better name, might not be rational in a normal way of thinking, but he would have his own reasons for doing what he did. Perhaps he hated prostitutes or just enjoyed frightening the girls with his macabre charade. Perhaps his object was only to scare them half out of their wits. Placing his hands on their necks was meant to terrify, but not to kill. It was a line of thought. The murderer of Allegra Benedict, on the other hand, had left home carrying a length of cord in his pocket. It was in his mind to commit murder.
Aloud, I agreed that it wasn’t the action of a rational man to dress up in a shroud and creep round in the fog, attacking street women. But I still doubted he’d use his hands on one and a prepared cord noose on another, on the selfsame night. I didn’t tell Dunn that, or any of my other conjectures. He was in no mood to listen.
I made the acquaintance of George Angelis that same day. As arranged, Morris went off to find the jeweller, Tedeschi, and to try and find the whereabouts of the former butler to the Benedict household, Mortimer Seymour. Biddle, his youthful face shining with enthusiasm, began to scour Piccadilly and surrounding thoroughfares for crossing sweepers. I went to the Benedict Fine Arts Gallery.
It had a discreet frontage on the south side of Piccadilly, not far from the park. The proximity of the gallery to the place where the body had been found was certainly significant in some way. But quite how, I didn’t yet know. I had decided there was a lot that I didn’t know. As for the gallery, it might have been an undertaker’s establishment such was its discretion and the amount of black lacquer on the door and window cases. There was nothing on display in the shadowy plate-glass window but a single landscape in oils, propped on an easel, showing a view of a large city with a great domed baroque church, painted from a standpoint across an intervening river. The easel was surrounded by velvet drapes.
The door was locked, although there was no ‘closed’ notice hanging in it. I guessed the manager, George Angelis, found it necessary to deny entry to all but bona fide clients, though possible buyers were probably avoiding the place to avoid being trapped themselves by reporters. To gain admittance I had to jangle the doorbell repeatedly until a young assistant appeared on the other side of the glass and gestured that I should go away. Clearly, I thought ruefully, my appearance was not that of a prospective customer. On the other hand I did look rather like a
‘If I had to guess, sir,’ I offered, ‘when the story of a woman found strangled in the park was printed, one of the street girls went to a reporter and sold him her story of the River Wraith for a guinea. Now it’s open season and reporters are all hunting girls who have a story about the River Wraith to tell.’
‘Just what I feared!’ groaned Dunn, rubbing his head. ‘We can increase the men on foot patrol in the river area. But if this deviant is seeking his prey in the parks as well . . .’
‘We still don’t know, sir, that he really does exist, or that he is our murderer. Daisy Smith, the girl I spoke to, told me the Wraith had his hands on her neck. There was no mention of a cord.’
‘So he has changed his modus operandi,’ grumbled Dunn.
‘Why should he do that, sir?’
‘Why, man, because the girls had been escaping him! He meant to make sure of his next victim.’
The possibility had already occurred to me, but I had had time to think it over and to dismiss it.
‘In that case,’ I objected, ‘why should he use the two different methods on the same night? He put no cord round Daisy’s throat.’
‘Do I know what’s in his head?’ roared Dunn. ‘We are dealing with a madman! The next victim may be attacked with a knife, for all we know. He’s not a rational being, Ross.’
The River Wraith, to call him that for want of a better name, might not be rational in a normal way of thinking, but he would have his own reasons for doing what he did. Perhaps he hated prostitutes or just enjoyed frightening the girls with his macabre charade. Perhaps his object was only to scare them half out of their wits. Placing his hands on their necks was meant to terrify, but not to kill. It was a line of thought. The murderer of Allegra Benedict, on the other hand, had left home carrying a length of cord in his pocket. It was in his mind to commit murder.
Aloud, I agreed that it wasn’t the action of a rational man to dress up in a shroud and creep round in the fog, attacking street women. But I still doubted he’d use his hands on one and a prepared cord noose on another, on the selfsame night. I didn’t tell Dunn that, or any of my other conjectures. He was in no mood to listen.
I made the acquaintance of George Angelis that same day. As arranged, Morris went off to find the jeweller, Tedeschi, and to try and find the whereabouts of the former butler to the Benedict household, Mortimer Seymour. Biddle, his youthful face shining with enthusiasm, began to scour Piccadilly and surrounding thoroughfares for crossing sweepers. I went to the Benedict Fine Arts Gallery.
It had a discreet frontage on the south side of Piccadilly, not far from the park. The proximity of the gallery to the place where the body had been found was certainly significant in some way. But quite how, I didn’t yet know. I had decided there was a lot that I didn’t know. As for the gallery, it might have been an undertaker’s establishment such was its discretion and the amount of black lacquer on the door and window cases. There was nothing on display in the shadowy plate-glass window but a single landscape in oils, propped on an easel, showing a view of a large city with a great domed baroque church, painted from a standpoint across an intervening river. The easel was surrounded by velvet drapes.
The door was locked, although there was no ‘closed’ notice hanging in it. I guessed the manager, George Angelis, found it necessary to deny entry to all but bona fide clients, though possible buyers were probably avoiding the place to avoid being trapped themselves by reporters. To gain admittance I had to jangle the doorbell repeatedly until a young assistant appeared on the other side of the glass and gestured that I should go away. Clearly, I thought ruefully, my appearance was not that of a prospective customer. On the other hand I did look rather like a
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