Peter Lovesey: The Perfectionist

"Okay." Duncan hesitated. "This happened only last night, you said?"

Already, an idea was forming in his troubled brain.

"Yes. He was staying overnight at some hotel in Mayfair. A reunion of some sort."

"Do you happen to know which one?"

"Which reunion?"

"No. Which hotel."

"The Excelsior… 1313. People talk about thirteen being unlucky. It was in Billy’s case."

Sad as it was, this had to be Duncan’s salvation. Billy Fisher was as suitable a murder victim as he could have wished for. Someone he’d actually worked with. He could think of a motive later-make up some story of an old feud. For once in his life, he needed to throw caution to the winds and act immediately. The police would have sealed Billy’s hotel room pending some kind of investigation. Surely a proven perfectionist could think of a way to get inside and pick up some personal item that would pass as evidence that he had murdered his old colleague.

He took the 5:25 to London. Most of the other travellers were going up to town for an evening’s entertainment. Duncan sat alone, avoiding eye contact and working out his plan. Through the two-hour journey he was deep in concentration, applying his brain to the challenge. By the time they reached Waterloo, he knew exactly what to do.

A taxi ride brought him to the hotel, a high-rise building near Shepherd Market. He glanced up, counted the wrought-iron balconies until he reached number thirteen, and thought of Billy’s leap. Personally, he wouldn’t have gone up so high. A fall from the sixth floor would have done the job just as well, and more quickly, too.

Doing his best to look like one of the guests, he walked briskly through the revolving doors into the spacious, carpeted foyer and over to the lift, which was waiting unoccupied. No one gave him a second glance. It was a huge relief when the door slid across and he was alone and rising.

So far, the plan was working beautifully. He got out at the 12th level and used the stairs to reach the 13th. It was now around 7:30, and he was wary of meeting people on their way out to dinner. He paused on the landing to let a couple pass by him on their way downstairs. They didn’t seem to notice him. He moved along, looking for room 1313.

There it was. He had found Billy Fisher’s hotel room. No policeman was on duty outside. What a stroke of luck, thought Duncan, it wasn’t even as if a man had killed himself in there.

He went back down to the foyer, marched coolly up to the desk and looked at the pigeonhole system where the keys were kept. He’d noticed before how automatically reception staff hand over keys when asked. The key to 1313 was in place. Duncan didn’t ask for it. 1311-the room next door-was also available and he was given its key without fuss.

Up on the 13th floor again, he let himself into 1311, taking care not to leave fingerprints. His idea was to get out on the balcony and climb across the short gap to the balcony of 1313. No one would suspect an entry by that route.

The plan had worked brilliantly up to now. The curtains were drawn in 1311. He didn’t switch on the light, thinking he could cross to the window and get straight out to the balcony. Unfortunately his foot caught against a suitcase some careless guest had left on the floor. He stumbled, and was horrified to hear a female voice from the bed call out, "Is that you, Elmer?"

Duncan froze. This wasn’t part of the plan. The room should have been unoccupied. He’d collected the key from downstairs.

The voice spoke again. "Did you get the necessary, honey? Did you have to go out for it?"

Duncan was in turmoil, his heart thumping. The plan hadn’t allowed for this.

"Why don’t you put on the light, Elmer?" the voice said. "Now I’m in bed I don’t mind. I was only a little shy of being seen undressing."

What could he do? If he spoke, she would scream. Any minute now, she would reach for the bedside switch. The plan had failed. His one precious opportunity of getting off the hook was gone.

"Elmer?" The voice was suspicious now.

In the civil service, there had been a procedure for everything. Duncan’s home life was similar-well ordered and structured. Now he was floundering, and next he panicked. Take control, something inside him urged. Take control, man. He groped his way to the source of the sound, snatched up a pillow and smothered the woman’s voice. There were muffled sounds, and there was struggling, and he pressed harder. And harder. And finally it all stopped.

Silence.

He could think again, thank God, but the realisation of what he had done appalled him.

He’d killed someone. He really had killed someone now.

His brain reeled and pulses pounded in his head and he wanted to break down and sob. Some instinct for survival told him to think, think, think.

By now, Elmer must have returned to the hotel to be told the room key had been collected. They’d be opening the door with a master key any minute.

Must get out, he thought.

The balcony exit was still the safest way to go. He crossed the room to the glass doors, slid them across and looked out.

The gap between this balcony and that of 1313 was about a metre-not impossible to bridge, but daunting when you looked down and thought of Billy Fisher hurtling towards the street below. In his agitated state, however Duncan didn’t hesitate. He put a foot on the rail and was up and over and across. Just as he’d hoped, the doors to the balcony of 1313 were unfastened. He slid them open and stepped inside. And the light came on.

Room 1313 was full of people. Not policemen or hotel staff, but people who looked familiar, all smiling.

One of them said, "Caught you, Duncan. Caught you good and proper, my old mate." It was Billy Fisher, alive and grinning all over his fat face.

Duncan said, "You’re…"

"Dead meat? No. You’ve been taken for a ride, old chum. Have a glass of bubbly, and I’ll tell you all about it."

A champagne glass was put in his shaking hand. Everyone closed in, watching his reaction-as if it mattered. Their faces looked strangely familiar.

"Wondering where you’ve seen them before?" said Billy. "They’re actors, mostly, earning a little extra between engagements. You know them better as the Perfectionists. They look different out of evening dress, don’t they?"

He knew them now: David Hopkins, the doctor; McPhee, the skene-dhu specialist; Joe Franks, the trunk murderer; Wally Winthrop, the poisoner; and Pitt-Struthers, the martial arts man. In jeans and T-shirts and a little shame-faced at their roles in the deception, they looked totally unthreatening.

"You’ve got to admit it’s a brilliant con," said Billy. "Retirement is so boring. I needed to turn my organising skills to something creative, so I thought this up. Mind, it had to be good to take you in."

"Why me?"

"Well, I knew you were up for it from the old days, and Harry Hitchman-where are you, Harry?"

A voice from the background said, "Over here."

"I knew Harry wouldn’t mind playing along. So I rigged it up. Did the job properly. Civil service training. Got the cards printed nicely. Rented the private car and the room and hired the actors and stood you all a decent dinner. I was the Hungarian waiter, by the way, but you were too preoccupied with the others to spot me in my false moustache. And when you took it all in as I knew you would-being such a serious-minded guy-it was worth every penny. I wanted to top it with a wonderful finish, so I dreamed up the suicide," he quivered with laughter.

"You knew I’d come up here?"

"It was all laid out for your benefit, old sport. You were totally taken in by the perfect murder gag, and you were bound to look for a get out, so I fabricated one for you. Harry told you I’d jumped off the balcony, and when you asked in which hotel, I knew you took the bait."