by John Creasey
He hadn’t been sure.
Higgs had.
The hall was large and barely furnished, but with an old couch against one wall. It looked comfortable.
“Hallo, Rolly,” Grice said, and for the moment at least he was quite friendly. “I’ve been told you’ve run into something else. You all right?”
“Shaken but surviving. I had a message from one of Ebbutt’s boys that Rose Mary Bell was here at Hounslow, and came to see. I found Ebbutt’s chap. They’d set the dogs on him, and then flown.”
“Dogs?”
“Yes.”
“Face?”
“Yes”
“Badly?”
“Nasty.”
There was a moment’s silence before Grice said very softly: “That’s queer. Just a minute, Kennett.” So Detective Inspector Kennett was still working on the case with him. “What was that about dogs in our report on the search for Zana’s model? … Hold on, Rolly, I may have something. You really all right?”
“Yes. Except that I feel as doped as Rose Mary Bell is.”
“You mean she was there?” Grice sounded incredulous.
“Was and is. Bill, listen, will you? I don’t know how long she’ll be unconscious, but I’d be surprised if she comes round for two or three hours. If she’s at a hospital and surrounded by police when she does come round, she’ll probably be scared out of her wits.”
“What’s your suggestion?” Grice was cautious.
“Let me take her to Lady Gloria’s place; there’ll be plenty of room for her,” suggested Rollison. “You can have a policewoman in her room as a nurse if you like, but what we ought to do is encourage Mr. Smith to think I’ve got her, and that you haven’t.”
“I thought you had something up your sleeve,” Grice said. “What good would that do?”
“Apart from the fact that Rose Mary isn’t likely to be so scared at Lady Gloria’s, she might talk more freely to me than to you. And the mysterious Mr. Smith might think it worth having a crack at her if she’s at the Marigold Club, and not in a police nursing home.”
“So that’s it,” said Grice. “Bait.”
“Beautiful bait, Bill.”
“Let me think about it,” Grice said, and probably he was going to make sure that he could do what Rollison wanted without breaking rules and regulations, or seriously offending his superiors. “I can’t see any objection at the moment, provided we have a nurse there when she comes round.”
“You can. Fine!”
“I’ll call Hounslow and give them a message soon,” promised Grice. “Leave it to me.”
“Gladly.”
“Very co-operative all of a sudden, aren’t you?” Grice asked suspiciously, and then said hurriedly: “Just a minute.”
Rollison held on, seeing the constable eyeing him with undisguised interest. The police at the gate were having even more trouble with the crowd who wanted to get in, but Rollison hardly noticed this: he was seeing only those things in his mind’s eye. Two were of startling contrast, and he wouldn’t enjoy life while they existed side by side.
One was a picture of Rose Mary Bell’s soft beauty, which seemed to have cast a spell.
The other was the picture of Higgs’ face.
There were other things. Higgs wasn’t married, but lived at home with his parents. Hell for his mother; she wouldn’t be surprised if he was mauled in the ring, but this …
“You there?” Grice was sharp-voiced.
“Yes.”
“I thought talk about dogs rang a bell,” said Grice. “We’ve had more reports about these other models who worked for Zana. There are three instances where they were frightened by dogs. I needn’t go into details,” Grice went on, speaking almost too quickly, “but we’ve tried to find out from friends and relations if anything unusual happened to them before they left Zana, and here are three reports in a row about the dogs. We’ll work on that. Now, is the Hounslow inspector there?”
“Someone’s just arrived.”
“Let me talk to him,” urged Grice.
“Right, Bill,” said Rollison, and then asked earnestly: “Tell him that it’s all right to let me go, will you? He needn’t give me the medal; you can do that yourself.”
“Go get him,” Grice said.
Rollison put down the receiver, but didn’t go away at once. He heard men moving about just above his head, then realised what they were doing: carrying Rose Mary Bell. He moved to the foot of the stairs and stared up. Two uniformed men had made a chair for the model, and were now at the top of the main staircase. A plain-clothes man was just behind them; obviously he had gone up the secondary staircase, for Rollison hadn’t seen him pass. He was middle-aged and authoritative: looking, almost certainly the local inspector.
Rollison studied the little group.
The two men carried Rose Mary with all the care that she should have; as if they were almost nervous of jolting her. She was still unconscious. They supported her so that her head leaned but did not loll back, and as he watched, Rollison felt the impact of her beauty even more than he had upstairs. It wasn’t a normal reaction, and he wished it wasn’t there; but his heart was thumping with that suffocating beat, which was something he couldn’t deny.
He said: “Superintendent Grice would like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” as the men reached the hall. The grey-haired man hurried to the telephone, while the others went to the couch in the hall and gently put the girl down.
The inspector listened more than he spoke, and when he put the receiver down he turned to Rollison and smiled as if delighted to know who it was.
“I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Rollison,” he said. “Then you’re quite free to go.”
Twenty minutes later Rollison was at the wheel of the hired Jaguar again. No one took any notice of him, and the crowd round the gate of Heath View was much smaller. The police hadn’t yet brought Rose Mary away, but there was no hurry, for she was in no danger.
Would Grice let her go to the Marigold Club?
Rollison drove fast in the soft evening light, heading for the Great West Road, and then putting his foot down. The very fact of speed seemed to help him to think clearly. He could be quite sure that Higgs had scared Mr. Smith away, that the house had been the headquarters, that Mr. Benjamin Allen was closely associated with this Smith — might even be one and the same person.
The unconscious girl should be able to tell the police a great deal. Grice in his present mood would probably share his knowledge. That was a good thing, but there were too many things that were not so good.
Dogs … and Maude, for instance.
Where were the dogs now? How many people had lived at the Hounslow house? Would they all go to another rendezvous, or would they split up? What mood would Mr. Smith be in, now that he had been driven out of the Hounslow headquarters? At least his deadliness couldn’t be much greater.
In Chiswick, forced to slow down to normal residential area speed, Rollison stopped by a telephone kiosk and called the Marigold Club. Ethel answered; a moment later his aunt spoke with the gruff authority of her years and training.
“Yes, Richard, what is it?”
He told her briefly.
“As I have already encouraged Maude to take part in this affair, I suppose I can do no less than have the girl here,” said Lady Gloria. “There is a room. Very well, Richard, if you think it will be useful.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“I hope you will make quite sure that the house is watched. You will remember that once before, when I allowed a young woman to take refuge here, murder was very nearly done. I don’t want that to happen again.”
Rollison didn’t speak.
“Did you hear me, Richard?”
“Yes,” he said, and didn’t smile, for he said very quietly: “But it might be, Glory. Nothing guaranteed.”
“I will have the room made ready,” said Lady Gloria, and rang off with a brusque goodbye.
Rollison s
miled as he blessed both her courage and her understanding. Then he turned round in the kiosk and pushed open the heavy door. It stuck a little, and he looked down to see if anything was in the way: he needed only to press his full weight against it. He did so, and the door opened and he staggered into the street.
A huge Alsatian dog came leaping towards him.
Chapter Sixteen
Brute
The dog was no more than twenty yards away, and coming fast, leaping, heading straight for Rollison. Not far away was a small car, drawn up at the side of the road; there wasn’t much doubt that the dog had come from the car.
It was a Ford Consul.
The first moment of shock was past, but Rollison had lost a second, and the dog was now only ten yards away. Its mouth was open, its great teeth showed: teeth which could lacerate a man as Higgs had been lacerated. Rollison could hear it breathing. He dropped his right hand to his pocket about the gun, but had no time to draw.
He fired through the cloth.
He couldn’t be sure whether he had hit the brute, but darted to one side as he fired, holding the door wide open. The dog staggered; at least it had been hit. It was only a few feet away, and if it turned on him, Rollison couldn’t hope to escape a mauling. Being wounded, it would be even more savage—
It almost fell.
It tried to turn on him, but couldn’t.
He stepped swiftly from the door, and the dog was half-way inside the kiosk, yelping. The door slammed, pushing it right in. It was too badly hurt to find the strength to push the heavy door open, and Rollison swung towards the little black car. He had his gun in his hand now, and levelled to shoot. There was only the car driver, and Rollison saw the tension on the man’s face, heard the engine roar. He didn’t see another man come out of a doorway almost at his side, didn’t know what was going to happen until the man struck at his arm, and cried out: “Drop that gun!”
The sharpness of the blow forced it out of Rollison’s hand; he had no chance to hold it. It clattered as he darted a look at the middle-aged man who had disarmed him. This wasn’t one of Mr. Smith’s aides, but a man who was doing his duty as a citizen.
“Don’t pick it up, or—”
The good citizen broke off.
Rollison, checking his speed, saw why. The Consul was moving very fast, its engine still roaring, and it was only a few yards away. It mounted the pavement, jolting wildly, and came hurtling towards Rollison; and it looked as if he hadn’t a chance to get away.
There was just one.
Between him and the car was the wall of a front garden, and he put his hands on this and vaulted over to the other side. He fell among bushes, staggered and lost his balance, and then thudded heavily to the ground. He heard the engine roaring, men shouting, brakes squealing. Then there came a high-powered roar, as of a car with the engine going at its fastest. That sound faded.
Rollison picked himself up, awkwardly. He was scratched and his clothes were torn, but if the bushes hadn’t been there he would probably have been badly hurt. As he bobbed up above the wall, he saw the man who had disarmed him standing and staring, several people standing on the other side of the road, and two cars pulled up. He could not see the little black car, but not far away was a turning to the right; the driver had probably gone that way.
He said: “How’s the dog?” and brushed himself down as he went to the gate. The man holding the gun hadn’t spoken, but kept staring. “Mine, I think, thanks,” said Rollison, and took the gun from an unresisting hand. “It wasn’t the best moment to be a hero, but that was quite something to do. Supposing I’d been a bad man?” He went towards the telephone kiosk, seeing several people hurrying towards him, and a policeman cycling fast.
The dog lay still and silent on the floor of the kiosk. So the wound had been fatal, or next door to it, and at least Mr. Smith had one dog less.
Rollison waited for the policeman, and while he did so, snapped his fingers and said in tart annoyance: “What the hell’s the matter with me? I didn’t get that car’s number.”
“It—it might have killed you,” breathed the man who had disarmed him, “and all you can say is—”
The policeman came up before he had time to finish.
It was a little after nine o’clock when Rollison reached the landing of 22, Gresham Terrace. He did not move as briskly as he had been known to, felt very hungry, and was regretful that Jolly would not be here with roast duckling. Jolly would be out watching Zana, and there was no way of telling whether he should be allowed to take such risks. The risks had been bad enough before; the disaster to Higgs had sharpened their effect, that was all. Jolly shouldn’t be used on this job, and certainly Maude shouldn’t be.
Would she give up?
Knowing Maude, that was unlikely.
Rollison examined the outside of the lock, and saw no scratches, nothing to suggest that the door had been opened without a key; so he inserted his own. He did this very slowly, and turned it as slowly as if there was a possibility of danger from that simple action.
Nothing happened.
He opened the door cautiously, and still nothing happened, but he heard a sound.
He stood quite still.
This was one thing he hadn’t wanted, the one thing he had almost feared. The pace was too hot. It was no use arguing, it was too hot. Jolly wouldn’t be here as late as this, and no one should be in the flat. He knew exactly what he should do, but the physical effort was repugnant. He ought to go down into the street, hurry to the courtyard at the back, come up the fire escape, as Tiny Joe had done, and then enter by the back door. This would take whoever was inside by surprise. He had done it before a dozen times, and had never felt the same reluctance as he did now.
No duckling, and instead—
A footstep sounded heavily.
“That you, Mr. Ar?” a man called bluffly; it was the voice which Rollison could never mistake, for there was only the one like it in the whole of London.
A huge man appeared from the kitchen. He filled the doorway with his barrel of a stomach and his great height and his massive arms. This was Bill Ebbutt, once a heavyweight who could stand up to terrific punishment in the ring, now the owner of the Blue Dog in the Mile End Road, the owner of Ebbutt’s gymnasium, and manager and trainer of half the hopeful boxers in the East End of London.
“Why, ’allo, glad you’re back,” he greeted. “Wondered wot had detained you, Mr. Ar.” His huge right hand came out and engulfed Rollison’s; then he blinked – for he was very short-sighted – and as he gripped, he frowned. “What’s ’appened to you, Mr. Ar? You look as if you’ve been rolling in the bushes.”
Rollison chuckled. “That’s it, Bill, literally.”
“Why, your face is scratched, too,” said Ebbutt with loud concern. “You bin ’aving a bit’ve a rough and tumble? You’d better go and bathe those scratches while I get a bite of supper ready.”
“Supper,” echoed Rollison. “You never said a nicer word. What’s it to be, fish and chips?”
“Blimey, think you’re in luck tonight, don’t you?” scoffed Ebbutt, and shepherded Rollison into the bathroom.
Rollison inspected himself with some interest. Most of the scratches were underneath his chin, but one ran down the side of his nose. He’d grazed his hand badly, too, and there were scratches on his legs, but he had come off much more freely than his suit. That was beyond invisible mending, and he took it off, washed, and dabbed the scratches with an antiseptic, then put on a royal blue dressing-gown which had fleur de lis worked on it by an aunt since dead and gone. He went into the big room, thinking a little sadly about the roast duckling, and turned to the dining alcove. Ebbutt was standing there, but the table was laid, as only Jolly could lay it.
“Ready, Mr. Ar?”
“Famished, Bill.”
“Lot o’ cutlery for a bit o’ bread and cheese,” said Ebbutt. “Talk about one ’alf the world not knowin’ ’ow the ovver ’alf lives. But you earn your silver plate,
I’ll say that for you.” He went out massively, and Rollison helped himself to a gin-and-it.
Ebbutt returned, bearing a silver dish. He placed this in front of Rollison, stood back to survey it, and plucked the lid off. Already the aroma was telling its own tale, and Ebbutt’s grin told another. There on the silver salver was a roast duckling, looking as brown and rich and succulent as any Jolly had ever prepared for him.
“Now I’ll fetch the green peas and the apple sauce,” boomed Ebbutt, and rumbled off, coming back with two steaming dishes, one in each great hand. “Did it hisself, Jolly did, and give me instructions on ’ow long it was to cook for. Give me the perishing willies, he did; he said you’d be ready by ’ar-past eight latest, and here it’s bin, spoiling. But cooking never ’urt duck, Liz says. Look okay?”
“Wonderful.” Rollison’s eyes glowed. “Where’s your plate?”
“I’ve had all I want in the kitchen,” said Ebbutt. “You eat in peace.” He heaved himself towards the kitchen again, and then stopped in the doorway. “I knew there was sunnink, ’ead like a sieve I’ve got. Gricey telephoned.”
Rollison almost forgot roast duckling.
“Any message?”
“He said the young lady’s going where you asked.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, and smiled and relaxed. “Bless his old heart! Bill, there’s a job for you. I want at least half a dozen of your best men to spend the night at Lady Gloria’s place. They’ll have to have shake-downs in the kitchen. There might be trouble, and I’d hate your chaps not to be in it.”
“The old girl still ready to take it on the chin?” marvelled Ebbutt, who had been known to boast that Lady Gloria was his one friend among the aristocracy. “Can’t ’elp admiring ’er, can yer? Well, enjoy your dinner. Never know if you’ll live to ’ave another, do you?”
“No,” agreed Rollison, unexpectedly sober. “No,” he repeated, “I don’t. Come and sit down, Bill.” That tone brooked no denial, and while he ate he told Bill Ebbutt what had happened to Bert Higgs.
