by John Creasey
Now, a Superintendent named Ellerby was saying: “We know that there have been times when you’ve been able to achieve some results, Mr. Rollison, and we know you mean well. We also know you were at Heddle Mews last night —you left a print. Let’s face it, we don’t think you had anything to do with the murders, even though you were handy at the time of each. In fact, we think you probably suspected that murder would be attempted, and went to try to prevent it. That’s why we’re sore. If you did that, why didn’t you tell us in advance? Haven’t you yet come to realise that you can’t play about with matters like murder?”
It would be easy to tell him that on the trophy wall there were more souvenirs of murder cases than he, Ellerby, had handled in his fifteen years in the Criminal Investigation Department. It would be easy to rile Ellerby; and easier still to lose his own temper, so that he would become at loggerheads with the police. That would not help; only sweet reason would.
“Let’s start with a clean sheet,” Rollison said mildly. “I’d no idea that murder was contemplated. Barbara Lorne came to me and told me that she’d been told about this marriage to a woman from Bane. I knew from Lessing that he planned to go to the Bane cottage for his honeymoon, and …” Rollison was crisp and brisk, held Ellerby’s attention, and just gave a shorthand-note taker time to get everything down. “After that, it was a question of believing that Lessing was a schizophrenic or a rogue, or else there was someone else behind all this whom no one knew. I went to Heddle Mews hoping to find people whom Lessing knew, and I didn’t. I talked to the woman, who said she was his wife. Holy Joe appeared, and boomed a lot of nonsense.” Rollison explained in some detail, and added grimly, “I wasn’t at my liveliest, or I would have stopped Joe. Have you got him?”
“We acted on your tip, but we can’t find him,” Ellerby said. “There’s a call out.”
“That man’s no slouch,” Rollison observed heavily. “Do you know much about him?”
“Next to nothing,” Ellerby answered frankly. “He’s been in London on and off for years, but does most of his tramping in the provinces, as far as we know—he’s only here for the odd week or so now and again.”
“Anything known against him?”
“He just goes around with his hell-and-damnation Crusade, that’s all, we’ve always thought him a harmless religious fanatic. We’ve sent out the call to all the provincial forces, too, so we ought to get some news soon. Now, you were telling me—”
“Yes,” Rollison said, and went on: “My man was attacked outside …”
Soon Ellerby was asking pertinent questions: had Jolly seen his assailant, had there been one man or two besides Holy Joe, what had the woman said? Rollison answered frankly, and the atmosphere noticeably thawed.
“Of course you’ve had a lot of experience,” Ellerby conceded, as man to man. He stood up from his big desk. “But you’re strongly prejudiced in Major Lessing’s favour.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s no use asking your dispassionate opinion.”
“I think Major Lessing is being impersonated.”
Lorne had almost screamed ridicule, but Ellerby didn’t. The Superintendent might be a big, tough-looking man, but his unexpectedly quiet voice and willingness to see reason made him much more likeable now than when Rollison had first arrived. He flipped over some memoranda on his desk, and remarked musingly: “Either it’s that, or he’s mad. Have you seen the medical reports?”
“They might get him off on the grounds of insanity, but they’d only stand up if it was proved conclusively that he killed both women,” Rollison said. “The timing at the mews is pretty close. I doubt if I was in London an hour before I started off for Carruthers’ place—it may have been an hour and a half. I didn’t drive fast, of course. He could have left an hour after me and reached London in time to kill the woman, but he had an alibi for the early part of last night.”
“Seriously think the young woman’s evidence would serve as an alibi?” asked Ellerby. “She’s in love with him, and would obviously lie for him. Worried about her, Mr. Rollison?”
Rollison saw the trap, and walked into it.
“Very.”
Ellerby said triumphantly: “So you think Lessing may be ready to kill again?”
“I think the killer might be,” Rollison retorted. “I still don’t think Lessing’s the killer.”
“On what grounds?”
“Thirty-five years of acquaintance.”
“No evidence?”
“Only your evidence.”
“If I had to take this case to court tomorrow, I think I could make it stick,” Ellerby declared, and Rollison believed that he meant it. “What do you want to do, Mr. Rollison?”
Rollison said slowly, “I think I want to be given a completely free hand to go where I like, in this country or out of it, with my assurance that if I find Lessing I’ll report at once to you.”
“Then why not tell us where you’d go to look for him, and let us go?”
“I think I could get a lot more out of him than you could, and that if I tell you in advance, you’ll steal a march on me, and the damage will be done.”
“You haven’t much confidence in us, have you?” Ellerby was tart.
“I disagree with your theory on this case. You’ll approach it from an angle I think is the wrong one, and could be dangerous.”
“Will you leave the country, Mr. Rollison?”
“I might.”
“Paris?”
So the police were on to that angle.
“Possibly.”
“Mr. Rollison,” said Ellerby, with a smile which was quite pleasant, “twenty minutes or so ago your man Jolly booked a seat on an aircraft leaving for Paris from London Airport at four o’clock this afternoon, an Air France Constellation. He booked it in the name of Smith. The booking clerk recognised his voice, knew that he usually made reservations for you and asked for a number to check back on. Jolly gave your number. Are you going to see Major Carruthers?”
So Ellerby was good; if he claimed that he was quite competent to handle this thing it would be difficult to argue, but – Barbara had escaped. Barbara almost certainly knew where Lessing was, and would go straight to him. Loyalty or not, the risk to her was real.
“Yes,” Rollison answered.
“Why?”
“It’s his flat; Lessing was a kind of unofficial subtenant. It’s his cottage, too; Lessing had the use of it whenever Carruthers didn’t need it. Carruthers isn’t like Lessing in appearance, but there are superficial likenesses, in height, build, complexion and colour of hair. The two men might be mistaken for each other if only descriptions were used as a guide.”
“Is Carruthers a personal friend of yours, too?”
“No. An acquaintance whom I met through Lessing, some years ago.”
“How did you meet Mr. Lorne and his daughter, Mr. Rollison?” The politeness was over-insistent, and was why Rollison found this office, the interview, everything about the Yard so strange. There seemed a kind of hidden menace, as if at a given moment Ellerby would come out with some devastating accusation.
“Lorne and I have served on a number of charity committees for years, and I liked him,” Rollison answered. “He wanted me to introduce his daughter to friends of mine, and I did.”
“Was this a matter of professional introductions to a certain level of society to which Mr. Lorne could not aspire on his own?” asked Ellerby softly.
Rollison grinned.
“It was not! I may take money for what you would call dabbling in crime when it should be left to the police, but I only introduce friends to my friends. I like Lorne and his daughter.”
“These demands, of ten different lots of a thousand pounds, Mr. Rollison—is it true that you advised Lorne to send ten per cent of the sum demanded to eac
h of the addresses given to him?”
So Lorne had been absolutely ruthless, telling the police everything, so determined was he to make sure that nothing that might help his daughter was left unsaid.
“Yes,” answered Rollison.
Ellerby had an unexpectedly broad smile, and very white teeth. He showed them now.
“Damned good idea,” he said, “and I’ve asked Mr. Lorne to do it, in spite of the way the news has broken. It’s just possible that each one of the lots of money will be collected. Each address will be watched from tomorrow morning onwards and if that packet is collected the collector will be followed. I know, I know, it isn’t likely that the blackmailer will expect anything now that the news has been broadcast, but it’s worth trying, I think.”
Rollison shrugged. “It can’t do any harm. The addresses all looked like calling addresses to me. Were they?”
“Yes, shops which act asposte restante. Not much which misses you,” went on Ellerby, almost exuberantly. “If I’m not careful I shall begin to believe that your reputation is justified! Mr. Rollison, we have gone pretty deeply into this, as you can imagine. We would like to consult the Surete Nationale, and in fact we have asked them to look out for Major Lessing at the Channel ports and the airfields serving northern France and Paris. We’d like them to watch Major Carruthers’ appartement, in case Lessing goes there, but we haven’t yet a case strong enough to go that far. Paris would do it, but until there is a warrant out for Major Lessing, my superiors don’t want the French police to be too deeply involved. At the moment we want Major Lessing for questioning. I’ve asked for a warrant for his arrest, but there are difficulties—it may take us twenty-four hours to get it. If you go to Paris you’ll be on your own. The French police won’t take the same casual view that we do of the amateur. If you run into trouble there you will really be in trouble.”
Rollison felt his heart pounding, this time with excitement based on the relief that they were not going to stop him from taking that aircraft.
“I’ll take the risk,” he said. “Do you know that Miss Lorne can pilot a plane, and that her father has a private one?”
“We know more,” said Ellerby. “Lorne’s daughter took off in it, a little while before I came in, that’s why I had to keep you waiting. All the papers were in order, she had her new passport—she went to her home and collected it. She is behaving now with quite remarkable clear-sightedness, Mr. Rollison, not like a sorely frightened bride who might have been deceived.”
“She’s in love with Lessing,” Rollison said, and added heavily: “So she did go to Paris.”
“Do you know if she knows Carruthers?”
“I’m not sure.”
Ellerby said, “I don’t know any way you can be sure of getting to Paris ahead of her, Mr. Rollison, but I do know that there is a vacant seat on the two-o’clock aircraft, B.E.A., and you’ve just time to catch it.”
It was then twenty to one; there was comfortable time for Rollison to go to his flat, collect his passport and some money, and drive to the London Airport. There was plenty of time to sit and look into the Scotland Yard man’s eyes and then to ask quietly: “May I take an automatic pistol?” “You’ll have to take your chance with the French Customs, ours won’t stop you.”
Rollison stood up. “Thanks. But why all this?” Ellerby spread his hands. “It’s very simple, Mr. Rollison. Ever since I can remember, you’ve been acting in a way most of us have thought unjustified. We are trained specialists, and you’ve been the interfering amateur. Bill Grice always told me that I was wrong, that you see and can tackle angles which we can’t, and can take chances that we can’t. He was the only senior officer here who believed in giving you your head, Mr. Rollison. I can see why now. Certainly you can go to Paris and do things that we can’t. The quicker this business is settled, the better I’ll like it, and I don’t give a damn whether you settle it, we do or the French police do. I do care whether that young woman lives or dies, and I think she might be going straight to her death. But I’ve nothing to go on that will enable me to ask the French police to co-operate, yet.”
After a pause, Rollison said, “Now I know for certain.”
“Know what for certain?” asked Ellerby.
“That I like policemen,” answered Rollison, when he was half-way to the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Unexpected Guest
Rollison did not go into details but simply told Jolly that the police were playing the game his way, and sent his man to get his passport, a store of French francs which was always kept at the flat and some traveller’s cheques also kept for emergency; and Jolly packed an overnight bag. Jolly tried to hurry, but could not; yet when the bag was packed and Rollison ready to go, he said:
“May I drive you, sir?”
“No,” said Rollison. “There’s far too much to do here.” In fact, Jolly needed rest. “Get all that Fleet Street business done first.”
“I’ve attended to it, sir.”
“Make a nuisance of yourself, and do it again. Then check everything you can about Carruthers on this side, find out whether he had any reason to dislike Major Lessing—all that and as much more as you can think up. Try to find out more about Holy Joe, who he is and what he does for Carruthers. And finally—”
Rollison hesitated.
“Yes, sir?” Jolly was eager.
“The police have allowed—in fact encouraged—Mr. Lorne to send out those hundred-pound baits,” Rollison told him. “I’d like to know if they get any results from watching the addresses and seeing who collects. I’ve a feeling that the blackmail might be an outsize red-herring to distract attention from the real motive. I’d also like to know why Mr. Lorne is prepared to go on with it. The threat of disclosing the marriage to Helen Goodman doesn’t serve now, so—has there been another threat, of another kind? Is he under different pressure? If so, what?”
“I’ll see if I can find out anything, sir,” Jolly promised.
Rollison went out and hurried down the stairs; he could hurry in comfort provided he kept his head straight and went on his toes, so as not to jolt his neck. He had seen no police or detectives when he had returned from the Yard, except the man who had driven him, and he saw none now. The centre of the case had shifted, and Ellerby could not have signalled his intention to work with him more clearly; unless he was being very cunning.
He might be pretending this friendly willingness to work together so as to disarm Rollison.
He might be watching him much less ostentatiously.
Rollison dumped his overnight case in the back seat and took the wheel. He drove sedately towards Piccadilly, then towards Hyde Park Corner, heading for Putney, Hammersmith, the Great West Road and the Airport. He was near the Lyric Theatre when he suspected that one of the tyres was low, but he did not slow down; they were tubeless, and should keep up for as long as he needed the car. He felt the bumpiness of a stretch of road more markedly, and felt a little anxious; the last thing he wanted to do was to change a tyre. The clock on the fascia board showed that it was twenty minutes past one; he had ample time, provided he did not have to throw too much away.
The tyre would have to last as far as the airport.
He felt it, bumpety-bumpety-bump when he was near Turnham Green. There were garages along here, and surely one where he could get a taxi to take him to the airport, if the driver would get a move on.
He saw two garages along on the right, and pulled into the kerb opposite them; that saved the need for crossing the stream of traffic coming towards him. No one was in sight at the garage. He got out of the car and looked at the two front tyres; they were perfectly all right. He went to the back, and saw that the offside tyre was nearly flat; and then he saw that the valve was in an odd position; it had been badly wrenched out of its seating, and undoubtedly the puncture was there.
It was twenty-five minutes past one, and if he could get away from here in five minutes he would catch the aircraft. He stepped into the road behind the car, and as he did so, heard a sound at the boot lid. He looked round and saw it opening. Startled, he backed away hastily as it was flung open.
He looked into a man’s face; the face of a small man, a complete stranger, who was crouching inside the big boot.
Minutes counted.
If Rollison spent any time dealing with this man he might miss that two-o’clock aircraft; and Ellerby would not have thought it worth sending him in a hurry unless he had believed there was real danger to Barbara.
He heard a car horn, wailing.
The little man just crouched there, defiantly, as if daring him to raise an alarm.
Minutes counted.
A car came up behind him, moving at such a speed that Rollison spun round, to jump out of the way. Traffic was too thick for him to jump into the road, so he stepped smartly back on to the pavement. The car was a dark-green Jaguar. Its nearside door opened and a man jumped out and came hurrying to him.
“That’s enough,” the newcomer said abruptly. “You’ve had it.”
There was the crouching man, staring up at him; this man, big and hefty; and the driver, also getting out. It all happened in a second or two, and he was still incapable of sudden movement.
“Don’t know how you thought you could get away with it,” the speaker went on, and gripped Rollison’s forearm, while the little man moved quickly out of the boot and slammed it. The driver of the Jaguar came up, and Rollison was surrounded on three sides. “Why don’t you use your mind?” the speaker asked in a clear voice. “It’s no use knocking off a
Rolls-Bentley.”
A man and woman, passing, looked round.
It was a thousand to one that these men weren’t police. They were here to stop him from getting to the airport, so he was not wanted in Paris. The need to cross the Channel became a screeching urgency.
