by John Creasey
“Fetch a copper, Andy,” the speaker went on, and the little man began to move away promptly; the act was brilliantly convincing. A group of seven or eight people had gathered, and the speaker still held Rollison’s arm tightly, as he continued :
“We’ve had a lot of trouble with car thieves lately, so Andy makes a habit of getting in the boot. Your number was up before you started.”
“Ah,” said Rollison, as if owlishly.
Even if he made a run for it he would not be able to catch that aircraft now; the men had succeeded. No policeman was in sight, and “Andy” would not bring one. They would waste ten minutes or so; and they might even have laid everything on well enough to have a stage policeman in the offing.
He could argue; he might even persuade the crowd; but he could not get on board that aircraft, unless a miracle happened, and there was no sign of a miracle. Inwardly he was seething, outwardly he showed no sign of anger or disappointment.
Andy was out of sight.
“You haven’t much to say for yourself,” said the man who was holding Rollison.
“No,” said Rollison. “I haven’t recovered from being accused of stealing my own car.”
“That’s a good one!” The man guffawed; while Rollison’s thoughts were racing to hopes of chartering a special plane. If the others were so anxious to stop him from catching that particular plane it could only mean that the next hour or two was vital. “You wait until the police arrive, then we’ll see whose car it is. Where’s Andy, Tim?”
The other man said, “Dunno.”
Seconds counted.
Then the miracle happened.
A car drew up alongside the Jaguar, a small Austin – with Jolly at the wheel.
Jolly looked peaky and pale, but his eyes were very bright as he opened the door of the Austin and got out. A huge lorry pulled up behind him, the driver hooted; and a dozen cars were slowing down behind the lorry, but Jolly took no notice at all. The two men holding Rollison looked at Jolly in surprise, and he glanced at them as he said almost meekly: “I thought there might be an attempt to stop you, sir, so I followed as soon as I could. Can I be of any assistance?”
“Who the hell are you?” the spokesman demanded, and the crowd now stared at Jolly, so obviously a gentleman’s gentleman, so neat, small, elderly, prim and proper.
“I am Mr. Rollison’s butler,” Jolly announced, with great dignity. Then he doubled his right fist and drove it into the nearer man’s stomach. Rollison bent his elbow and rammed it against the other man’s ribs, making him drop his hold and stagger back. “Quickly, sir” Jolly breathed, and the next moment Rollison was squeezing into the Austin; its engine was still running. The huge lorry had come too close to get past, a line of traffic behind the Austin was now a hundred yards long, and from afar off two real policemen were coming but not hurrying. Jolly slammed the door. Someone on the pavement shouted and darted forward, but Rollison let in the clutch and put the car in gear and shot off. The wail of the lorry’s horn was loud in his ears. The road ahead was clear as far as he could see, and within seconds he was travelling at forty-five miles an hour; not far ahead, on the Great West Road, he could do what speed he liked. Jolly would make sure that the police did not send out a call for him, he need not worry about that.
Need he?
He reached the Great West Road, and put his foot down; the little car’s speedometer needle swung towards the eighty mark, and quivered on it. He flashed past car after car, leaving even a Rolls-Bentley standing. Nothing was on the road behind him, so no one was giving chase.
He still had twenty-seven minutes.
He had seven minutes when he swung off the road into the airport enclosure, and he knew the airport road so well that he did not have to stop and inquire the way. He went beneath the underpass and swung towards the Queen’s Building, the passenger and the loading bays; and he reached the spot where he was due with three minutes to spare. Porters were waiting. He jumped out, and a porter said:
“Paris, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Flight 71, sir. Shall I take your luggage?”
It was on the seat of the Rolls-Bentley.
“Left my case behind,” Rollison said, “but I’ve a passport and ticket. Can you get someone to park my car, my man will be here for it soon.”
“Okay,” the porter said. “This way, sir. You’ll just about do it.”
He would do it with seconds to spare.
Everyone was eager to help; Customs and Immigration raised no difficulties, it was almost as if the police had smoothed a path for him. Officials hustled him out to the field. The aircraft was already warming up, and the rest of the passengers were aboard. Rollison saw mechanics and ground staff waiting to take the steps and the chocks away, and every passenger seemed to be staring, as if accusing him of making them late. Now that he was climbing the steps he felt worse than he had all day; after last night’s blows on the head he was in no shape for this: he hadn’t been in shape for the emergency at all.
Thank God for Jolly!
A stewardess beamed at him.
“All right, sir?”
“Thanks, yes. I don’t deserve to get to Paris, do I?”
“You’ve half a minute yet, sir.” She was gay, he was gay, but he wanted to sit down. She escorted him to a seat on the corridor side, but with a position from which there would be a fair view. The doors were pushed to. He heard the throbbing and felt the vibration of the aircraft, and it was almost soothing. He hardly seemed to sit down before the plane began to taxi for position before moving towards the runway.
In a little over an hour they would touch down at the Paris Airport.
There was nothing he could do until he got there; very little useful purpose would be served even by thinking about the issues, although Lessing’s friend Carruthers and the hairy Holy Joe were vivid in his mind; almost as vivid as Barbara, for whom he was afraid. He closed his eyes, and he felt the engines give the final roar before the take-off; the one moment in a flight when he always felt uneasy. When he opened his eyes the land was sweeping past, and the machine was bumping and vibrating; and then suddenly it was still, as if it were floating.
It was.
That thought made him grin.
Then he saw Robert Lorne, staring round from a seat four places in front of him.
Chapter Eighteen
Paris
It was impossible to mistake Barbara’s father; that round face and the round head, the perfectly fitting coat; and, just now, the angry, hostile expression in his pale eyes. He did not get up. The earth seemed to be swaying past Rollison’s eyes as the aircraft banked a little. He hardly noticed it. He was thrust against the safety belt, and had no doubt that Lorne was held tight in by his round fat belly; that was why he was twisting round in such an odd way.
Rollison raised a hand, to acknowledge him.
Lorne turned away and disappeared behind his seat.
Rollison thought, “I don’t even get time to think.”
Why was Barbara’s father here, on the way to Paris? Did he know where his daughter was likely to go? Had he any reason to think that Lessing was in Paris?
One thing was certain: it could not be coincidence.
First, the three men trying to stop him; and now this.
He watched the houses and the fields, tiny patches in a toy country, as they became smaller and smaller beneath the aircraft. The momentary tension of the take-off had gone. The stewardess was coming round with a dish of barley sugar, and the Fasten Belts No Smoking sign flashed off at the end of the cabin.
Passengers were beginning to talk. The man sitting next to Rollison turned his head and said, “Well, that was smooth enough.”
“Perfect,” agreed Rollison and took out cigarettes. The other did not smoke. Rollison drew on a ciga
rette, and leaned back, trying to get all the morning’s happenings into the proper perspective. The basic need, to find Guy Lessing and to prove what he had done, had not changed; but there were many new factors. Barbara, with what seemed to be a flash of recollection for the second time in two days. Lorne’s attitude. The bitterness between father and daughter over Lessing, which must have gone very deep indeed. The decision of the Yard to let him, Rollison, have his head – which they certainly would not have done had they felt capable of handling this situation for themselves. Undoubtedly it was the French angle which gave them trouble.
How had Lorne discovered where Barbara was going? Was he under some kind of pressure which Rollison knew nothing about?
Was it even conceivable that he would try to keep Barbara away from Lessing by force?
There was another fact: if Barbara and her father knew about the Paris association with this affair, and knew where to go, it meant that they had known about it before today.
Did it?
There was a possibility that one of the newspapers had discovered that Mrs. Lessing the Second had just arrived from Paris, but would that in itself send Barbara and her father here?
The aircraft was very high, was not quivering very much and the noise of the engines were subdued. Newspapers were rustling, magazines opening, a small child ran down the gangway between the seats. The next moment of tension would be on landing at Orly.
It was as perfect a landing as it had been a take-off.
Rollison was third off the aircraft, and he did not turn round to see Lorne; he could catch up with Lorne when they were through Customs. He was very conscious of the weight of an automatic pistol against his side as he stood in front of a thin-faced, middle-aged Customs officer, who found it hard to believe that he had no luggage, not even a briefcase. In fluent French, Rollison explained that he had left everything at the London airport. There were smiles, gestures, bon voyage, m’sieu!
Rollison stepped out of the Customs buildings into bright sunshine, fierce heat and the roaring of engines warming up. There was a sign: taxis. He waited back until three, all vintage ones, had been taken, and took the fourth, a sleek-looking modern Citroen with the sloping roof. Lorne was still at the Customs.
“Yes, sir, I will wait, I have all day,” the taxi-man said, as Rollison slipped a five-thousand-franc note into his hand. He was small and perky, with waxed moustaches. Rollison sat in the back, still very much on edge, looking out of the window for Lorne. He wanted to make sure where Lorne went; he was desperately anxious to get to the French address where he might find Lessing, Barbara or at least Carruthers. The address had burned itself into his mind: 79, Rue de Gaspin, Paris, 6e. That was off the Boulevard St. Germain, or thereabouts. He knew the area slightly; a few years ago it had been the centre of the arts and painting fashion, but that had shifted lately.
Lorne came hurrying.
A big American car, a dual-tone Chrysler, was waiting with a chauffeur not far away. Lorne headed straight for it. The chauffeur got out, and Rollison said to his driver:
“Start off now. We want to keep that Chrysler in sight. Can you do it?”
“With this motor there is nothing I cannot do,” declared the Frenchman. He winked. “Besides, it is smaller, so in the traffic it is easier.”
“Prove it,” challenged Rollison.
The man gave a confident laugh as he started off. They passed the Chrysler, and the sun glinted on its red and pale-green cellulose. Sitting so that he could not easily be seen, Rollison saw Lorne handed in by the chauffeur, who looked hot if immaculate. Soon, the taxi was leading the way in a stream of airfield traffic, towards the main road; and once the Chrysler had turned towards Paris, the taxi-driver put his foot down, and left every other car on the road standing; except the Chrysler.
The taxi-driver now crouched over his wheel. From time to time Rollison caught a glimpse of his bright eyes in the driving-mirror; and from the other’s tension, he judged that this was not going to be so easy as he had thought. He looked round. The Chrysler was perhaps half a mile behind, and there was only slow-moving traffic between them. It seemed to be sweeping forward.
“He’ll never do it,” Rollison thought.
The Citroen’s speedometer needle was quivering around the 150 kilometres mark, but the only real hope was that traffic would slow the Chrysler down. It came sweeping on, and now Rollison could almost see the whites of the chauffeur’s eyes. He could not see Lorne.
The Chrysler swept past.
“It is possessed of the devil, that one,” the taxi-driver growled, and it would be easy to believe that there were tears of vexation in his eyes. “Have I got wings?”
“Keep going,” Rollison said. “Traffic might slow him down.”
“Not that one,” the driver said gloomily. “He will jump over the top of the traffic.” He settled down, and the needle still quivered about the hundred and fifty, until traffic lights, traffic gendarmes and the thickening traffic of the outer suburbs of Paris slowed them down.
“Where is it you wish to go?” the taxi-driver asked glumly.
“79, Rue de Gaspin.” Si, m’sieu.
Now the driver was determined to prove his prowess, and he wove in and out of the traffic like a crazed thing; and no one seemed surprised. He crossed the river near the Place de la Concorde, and soon they were on the Boulevard St. Germain, swinging along it as if this were the open country road; no one stopped them. Motor scooters swerved towards them and swung away, as if at the mercy of the wind. Green one-decker buses snarled, snorted at them and stuck out their wagging indicators, but the driver swept past.
Near St. Germain de Prés, he turned left, cutting in front of an approaching wine truck, whose driver leaned out and swore at him with masterly abandon. They flashed by antique shops and picture galleries, and then swung right, then left and found themselves in a street so narrow that parked cars were pulled up half on the cobbled road and half on the flagstones of the pavement.
The taxi-driver’s eyes brightened.
“Voild, m’sieu!”
“Magnificent,” praised Rollison. “Will you go to the end of the street, and be ready for me when I come out? I may be in a hurry again.”
“I shall be waiting,” the driver promised.
Rollison got out, and stared up at the tiny balconies at two floors, and all the shuttered windows; not a single one was unshuttered, not for the first time he marvelled at the way the French liked to shut out the light of day.
Number 79 was like all the rest of the houses here; dirty, drab, in need not only of painting but also of much plaster. A little way along a bedraggled tricolour, relic from some day of celebration, drooped in the heat which seemed to rise up from the cobbles. There was a huge wooden doorway with a smaller door set in it. Rollison opened the smaller door and stepped into a cobbled courtyard, where an old palm-tree wilted in a tub and a line of washing, drab and bedraggled, hung across one corner. A thin tabby cat stalked across in front of Rollison.
The entrance to the house was on the right, and Rollison stepped inside. He heard nothing. There was no concierge, only a little empty room, now used to store old boxes, newspapers and bottles. A circular staircase rose above his head, narrow and dilapidated, as if it had been built and beautifully decorated in gilt and pale blue in the days of Louis Quinze, and not been touched since. Rollison went up. At the first landing there was a card which must have been pinned to the shabby-looking wood for years. It announced M. Panier; there was only one flat at each landing.
Still Rollison heard no sound.
He seemed to be drawn on by some compulsive force. The silence seemed a threat in itself. Neither the chauffeur nor Lorne had been down in the street, so there was a chance that each of them was up here. Had Lorne come to take his daughter away by sheer physical force?
The stone steps m
ade little sound under his own footsteps. He reached the next landing, looked up into the narrow well of the staircase and saw that there were at least two more. There was no card at the second door. Rollison hesitated, then went up the next flight and saw the card he wanted to see: a card yellow and dusty, curling at each corner, and reading: Major Ralph Carruthers.
Rollison bent down.
There was no letter-box, only an iron knocker and an iron bell-push, but he first looked at blankness through the keyhole, and then put his ear to it. For the first time since he had come here, he heard a sound; and he did not like it, for it was like a moan.
He drew back.
He could just hear it now.
He tried the handle of the door, but although it turned, the door would not open. It was an old-fashioned lock of the safest kind known fifty years ago, but unless the door was bolted, he should be able to get the door open as quickly as he had the front door of the mews flat in Heddle Mews. He took out his skeleton key, and as he did so, heard a sound below him. He stood very still, the key in his hand; and then heard a bell ring. A moment later a door opened, then closed.
Rollison started to work.
It took him longer than he had expected for the lock was much more intricate than he had judged. He kept working. There was a possibility that this was a special lock, made to look old-fashioned. He began to wonder whether it would be better to go downstairs again and climb up to the apartment by the balconies and windows facing the courtyard, but he kept working; the metallic sounds were very clear.
This was the third time he had forced entry. At the cottage the door had been open, at the mews he had forced a door like this; each time he had got in, to find himself face to face with death.
That moaning seemed louder.
He felt the key grip, twisted very slowly and gingerly, and heard the lock click back. He waited for fully thirty seconds, to make sure that no one had heard, then turned the handle and pushed the door.
