by John Creasey
Not Russell’s coat or hand.
“Yes, that’s right,” Anne said, “they’re in there.”
Rollison moved, swift as any man could. He thrust Zana to one side with the flat of his hand and sent him reeling; he leapt upon Maude, flung his arms round her, and carried her with him towards the wall, bumping her head heavily. He heard her cry out, and turned to stare at the door.
It was open wide.
A man appeared, short and stocky, with a coat collar turned up, and with a small garden syringe in his hand. He pointed the syringe into the room and squeezed, and a liquid spattered out.
Some fell upon the table cloth, and burned small holes.
Some fell on the floor.
Some splashed the back of Rollison’s head, and stung sharply, more fell on Zana’s hands as he thrust them up to save his face.
Chapter Ten
Strong Man
Rollison saw the liquid as it came from the nozzle of the syringe, and he also saw Zana moving forward, although his hands were covering his face. The door, wide open for a moment, suddenly began to close, and the man with the syringe disappeared.
Zana leapt.
The door slammed.
Zana reached it before Rollison could free himself from Maude, who was clutching him round the waist, now, as if too frightened to show herself. He said: “It’s all right, let me go,” but she still hung on, and he had only himself to blame for the fierceness of his rush.
He freed himself.
Zana was already outside, and the door was wide open again. Footsteps thudded on the stairs, a woman exclaimed, and then screamed. There came a crash of cups and saucers, knives and plates, a shower of broken pieces clattered and rattled, falling down the stairs. Rollison reached the landing.
Zana was already half-way down. A waitress in pale blue cowered against the wall, and the smashed crockery and a silver plated tray were on the ground at the foot of the stairs. The dark-haired man in a dark coat was near the door, but before he reached it, it opened, and Charles Russell appeared.
Russell gaped.
The running man leapt at him.
“Stop him!” roared Zana. “Stop him!”
Russell couldn’t avoid doing so. He was in the open doorway, and there wasn’t room for two men to pass, and so he blocked the other. Suddenly, he ducked; Rollison, half-way down the stairs, saw a few spots of liquid go over his head; that syringe wasn’t empty yet.
Then Zana jumped at the assailant.
He clutched him by the shoulder, spun him round, and flung him against the wall. The strength in the little dress designer was really something to see. His victim struck the wall with a thud, and began to slide down, but he didn’t slide far. In that split second, Zana’s fingers tightened about his neck, and stopped him from falling; there was no doubt at all that if he had his way, Zana would choke the life out of him. Zana stood holding the attacker at arm’s length – those powerful, strong-man’s arms – and the pale-faced victim was held tight against the wall, mouth open, tongue showing, eyes bulging.
“Hugo, let him go!” Russell commanded. “Let him go!”
Zana ignored him.
Russell pulled at his arms, but it was like plucking at steel girders. There was no shadow of doubt that death was in Zana’s arms and hands and in his heart. He was squeezing so that the life would be choked out of his victim, and there was no other thought in his mind.
“Let him go!” Russell shouted.
Two waitresses were in the passage alongside the stairs, staring as if hypnotised. Several customers crowded the doorway of the tea rooms. Anne came hurrying from the kitchen. The only sounds were of Zana’s heavy breathing, a kind of gasping from his victim, and Russell’s insistent: “Let him go!”
He struck Zana savagely on the side of the jaw, but Zana only shook his head, as if to dislodge a fly, and glared into the bulging eyes of the man he meant to kill.
Then Rollison reached him.
“That’s enough, Zana,” he said.
Zana took no notice at all.
“That’s enough,” Rollison repeated, and when Zana still ignored him, he stretched out his own right hand, gripped Zana’s wrist, and twisted. He seemed to make little effort, but on the instant Zana started, then his body sagged and his grip on the man’s throat relaxed. Rollison pushed; and Zana backed away, so that Russell could grab his arms. The man who had been pinned against the wall fell down, helplessly.
“What a horrible thing to see,” a woman said in a choky voice. “Why doesn’t someone fetch the police? Police!” she repeated, as if realising that was a brilliant idea, and then she shouted shrilly: “Police!”
“I’ve already dialled 999,” said Anne, in her matter-of-fact voice, “the police will be here any moment.”
There was a pause, before a woman asked fearfully: “Will he die?”
“He won’t die,” Rollison declared, and beckoned Russell, who let Zana go and came forward. “Get him back to the salon. Keep him there, understand? If he doesn’t stay, the police will be after him, and he might find himself in a really bad spot. Understand?”
“Trust me.”
“I hope I can,” Rollison said.
Russell stared, as if the fervour of the remark startled him. His grey-green eyes looked very open and honest, and there was a puzzled look in them. Then he grinned, took Zana by the arm, and turned towards the door.
“You’re not going to let him go?” a woman cried.
“He won’t go far,” said Rollison. “Anne, get some cold water, please, and sponge Lady Maude’s hands and face if she was splashed. We’ll have to cleanse this chap’s too.” He went down on his knees beside the man who had sprayed the acid into the little room, a man whose own hands were burnt and blistered by the filthy stuff, whose neck was swollen and red, whose mouth was slack and who looked as if he might be dead. “Lukewarm water, please, then clear that room,” he said. “We’ll save him if we get busy.”
He dragged the man into the tea room, and began artificial respiration, and as he did so he heard a car draw up outside, doors slam, the footsteps of several men. Here were the police, and they couldn’t have come much more quickly. They could take over, and he wouldn’t mind that. If they saved this man’s life they would be able to question him, and between him and Harrison there should be quite a story to tell.
But if the man died …
He wouldn’t be able to talk, but that wasn’t all, and it hardly seemed to matter. If he died, then Zana had killed him, and although that might be justifiable homicide, it would have to be proved. The police would probably be compelled to hold the designer for a long, long time.
That could ruin him.
And someone meant to—
A policeman came in.
“Take over from me, will you?” Rollison said, but didn’t stop the rhythm of his movements, as he leaned his weight on the man’s back. “Thanks.” A policeman knelt beside him, and then took over, with hardly a break in the rhythm. “Fine,” said Rollison, thankfully, and straightened up, and stretched.
He looked into the eyes of the uniformed sergeant who had seen him near Hill Court.
They were hostile eyes.
“Perhaps you’re not here this time, either,” the sergeant said, with an under-current of resentment in his voice. “The sooner you’re cooling your heels the sooner this trouble will be over. What happened?”
“I don’t know why you’re talking to Mr. Rollison like that,” said Anne of the tea-shop. “He saved this man’s life. You should be thanking him, not flaring up at him. Mr. Rollison, please let me bathe those spots on your hand.”
She did so, cooling the tiny, burning spots.
“It’ll work out,” said Rollison, and smiled his thanks. “In the sergeant’s place, I’d be mad at me too. Come upstairs with me, will you?” He led the way, and the sergeant and another policeman followed. Rollison turned into the little private salon. There was the cloth, with large brown holes burnt in
it, the smallest the size of a shilling, the largest the size of half a crown. There were brown holes in the carpet, too, and some blistered marks on the pretty, flowered wall-paper. There was also a faint smell, one that vitriol might make. “Here’s where it happened,” Rollison went on. “Zana and Lady Maude and I were in here, waiting for our tea, and—”
He told the story in precise detail.
The hostility faded from the sergeant’s eyes while he listened, and while the other detective made notes. All the time, Maude sat in a chair near the window, looking very pale. Her eyes were too bright, and now and again she shivered. Rollison took no particular notice of her, but wondered if her nerves would stand the strain for long.
He hoped that they would not.
“And that’s the lot,” he said at last.
“Thank you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Now I shall want to see Mr. Zana. And telephone Mr. Grice. Will you be here?”
“For two minutes or so, but I’ll be at Hugo Zana’s for as long as you want me to be,” said Rollison. “Come on, Maude.” He stretched out his hands and she took them and stood up, relying a great deal on his support. “Let me know as soon as you can whether that chap dies or not, won’t you?”
“We will,” promised the sergeant.
The third policeman was still working on the unconscious man as Rollison and Maude passed, and there was no way of telling whether he would live or die.
As Rollison and the girl reached the corner, a car drew up, stopping very quickly.
Grice was in it.
“All right,” said Grice, half an hour later. “I’ve got the story clear, and there seems to be plenty of evidence. If the man should die, Mr. Zana, it will be necessary to charge you with causing his death. You understand that, don’t you?”
Zana said abruptly: “Yes, I do.”
“I fully realise that you had extreme provocation, judging from the statements made, but that is no excuse for taking the law into your own hands,” Grice went on, with cold formality. “The police are here to enforce the law. In spite of your opinion, the police have their uses. Have you ever seen the man before?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I do not lie, to the police or to anyone else,” said Zana angrily.
“I hope that’s true. Had you seen him before, Mr. Rollison?”
“No.”
“Lady Maude?”
“No.”
“Mr. Russell?”
“As a matter of fact I have seen him nearby several times lately,” Russell said, bringing welcome relief to the tension. “He’s been outside in the square. I thought he was passing betting slips! He’s been about for several days.”
“Have you seen him talk to anyone else?”
“One or two people have spoken to him, but I couldn’t tell you what they looked like,” said Russell, smoothing down his unruly ginger hair. “If I’d known what he was after—” he broke off, glanced at Maude, and then went on in a harder voice: “I suppose he was standing there ready to spray that foul stuff on anyone he decided shouldn’t be allowed to work for Zana.”
Now everyone looked at Maude, who was sitting very still in an armchair in the corner.
Chapter Eleven
Unlocked Door
Maude had not appeared to be listening to the conversation, but was obviously aware of the way all of them looked at her, and she eased herself back in her chair. She had a little colour now, and clearly had much better control over herself.
“Rolly, give me a cigarette, will you?” she asked. Rollison was at her side in a moment, and no one spoke as he handed her his case and flicked flame to his lighter. She drew deeply, and let the smoke trickle out between her lips at one corner.
“I don’t pretend that I enjoyed that very much,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to model for Hugo Zana.”
“My dear good woman—” Zana jumped up.
“And I’ve always admired Rose Mary,” Maude went on quietly. “I hope I can help her, too.”
“This kind of thing might happen again and again,” Russell said, harshly.
“I have Rolly to protect me!” That was only half joking.
“He won’t always be at hand,” said Russell, and swung round towards Zana. “Hugo, you can’t let her work for you after this. It would be next door to murder.”
Grice sat and watched the scene; Rollison stood and watched; and Zana and his assistant stared at each other as if oblivious of the others. Zana’s big mouth was working in a way which suggested that he was fighting back a spate of furious temper.
Did he suffer from paroxysms of fury?
“I know whom I want to work for me,” Zana said, deep in his throat, “and I want those sketches tonight, by seven o’clock. You haven’t much time.”
“It’s crazy!”
“Very well, I am crazy.”
“If you take risks with Lady Maude—”
“What are you trying to do?” demanded Zana, almost shrill, “teach me my own business? She wishes to work for me, so she works for me. Anyone who doesn’t wish to work for me knows where he can go. There is only one Hugo Zana, there are dozens of good artists.”
“Why, you conceited lunatic—” began Russell, jumping to his feet. “Go and find one-half as good as me if you can. I’m finished with the damned job.” He glowered at Zana, his face now redder than his hair, and the freckles showing clearly; here was the temper at which his colouring had hinted. His glittering eyes looked more green than grey. “And if you’ve any sense, you’ll get out of this while the going’s good, what sense is there in you getting yourself hurt?”
“You’re very sure that Lady Maude will get hurt, aren’t you?” asked Grice.
Russell swung round on him.
“What more evidence do you want? To find her with her throat cut or her face burned off?” He flung himself out of the room, and clumped up the stairs; and soon they heard thudding sounds, as if he was kicking at everything that got in his way.
Zana looked across at Maude, whose smile was now set and strained. What would Zana do, Rollison wondered.
He should have expected the sudden, broad grin, which made Zana look so much like a clown.
“He will be back in time to get the sketches done,” he asserted confidently. “Come with me, please, I want to show you the dresses which you will wear for the sketches, and also—there is something I would like to try with you. Those shoulders, they are very good, I have an idea that it would be possible to drape a coat from the back in such a way—yes, I think so. Yes. Come!” He jumped up. “We will go and see Mitzi.” He moved towards Maude, took her arm and then swung round towards Grice. “The police do not object if I work?”
“The police don’t object,” said Grice, “but you won’t work for long if that man dies.”
“Then we must hurry!” Zana cried, and almost hustled Maude out of the room.
Grice watched them go, then ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin; it rasped over stubble which looked very grey against his sallow skin. He smiled wryly as he heard the couple hurrying up the stairs.
“Think he’s right about Russell?”
“Probably. Bill, will you check Russell’s past and present as closely as you will Percival Harrison’s?”
“Why?”
“It may be just because he’s a human being, but he was very anxious for Lady Maude not to work for Zana, wasn’t he? And he was the only person who knew we were going to Anne’s for tea. He had time to telephone for the acid-thrower, even time to have a word with the chap in the street. That’s a thing to check, too.”
“Any other reasons for suspecting him?”
“I don’t even suspect him, I’d just like to make sure that he isn’t involved with our Mr. Smith,” said Rollison. “There’s another thing, Bill. I don’t like to think that Maude is the only one working for Zana.”
“She won’t be,” Grice said grimly. “I’ll arrange for a couple of our most attract
ive policewomen to join Zana soon; it may take a bit of arranging, though.”
“If he’s under arrest it won’t be necessary,” Rollison observed.
“He won’t be. The acid-thrower’s come round.”
“Small mercies,” Rollison said, thankfully. “Anything new, Bill? From the agents who won’t send girls to Zana, for instance.”
“Yes and no,” Grice said, slowly.
“Can you tell me?”
“Yes. Two say that Zana’s reputation is now so bad that they won’t take risks. One admits he was frightened by threats of physical violence. Undoubtedly someone is out to ruin Zana.”
“Hm, yes,” said Rollison, and forbore to point out that the police could have acted sooner. Perhaps they couldn’t be blamed for their caution, and certainly they were trying to make up for lost time. “Have you heard from any of the models themselves?”
“Two of those who left the country lived alone, no one’s heard from them since they went. The families of the other two – one’s gone to Milan, one to Buenos Aires – have had cables.”
“That all?”
“Yes.”
“I’d give a lot to talk to one of those models,” Rollison said. “Anything more?”
Grice rubbed his chin again.
“No, but we’ve plenty. English people with the artistic temperament are bad enough, but the continentals—” he shrugged. “Zana sees himself as a kind of genius when he’s working, I’m told, refuses to have anyone near him except his faithful old Mitzi, goes into a kind of trance, and then comes out of it as if he was inspired. Can’t get any sense out of him.”
“Been studying the great man, have you?” murmured Rollison.
“You may find it hard to believe but we like to know the people we’re dealing with,” Grice said, “and we’re badly worried about this.” He moved towards the street door as he went on, and it opened on to the bright, sunlit square. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly half-past four, at least I’ve got to admit that a lot of things have happened since Zana came to see you.”
“Including a visit to the East End,” said Rollison solemnly. “I trust you’ve checked that.”
