by John Creasey
‘Did you inquire there?’ Rollison was getting the essential questions over in a cool voice that might have been discussing any subject, and McNab certainly had no reason for imagining that it was connected with the case of the murdered tramp. Brendon felt irritated at the calmness with which his news was received, but said evenly enough: ‘No; I thought you ought to know.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Rollison; ‘and you’re quite right. I’ll certainly be calling before long.’
He replaced the receiver, eyed McNab while obviously not looking at him, and then apologised.
‘Sorry, Mac. Other things will intrude. I wish I could help you, but I can’t yet.’
McNab looked his doubts, but made no comment. The Toff saw him out, and then looked from the window overlooking the street. McNab had not gone away immediately, but was hesitating outside. Probably he was wondering whether Rollison was going out on an errand connected with the mystery.
‘My Mac,’ murmured the Toff, ‘you’re getting at once cunning and obvious. However …’
He stepped through the kitchen quarters of the flat sad down the fire-escape ladder leading to a courtyard which served the whole block. In five minutes he was walking briskly along Piccadilly, while McNab was still hesitating in Gresham Terrace.
A cab took the Toff to Bayswater Road Station in less than fifteen minutes, despite a traffic block. Frank Brendon was standing outside a near-by fruiters’, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his expression pugnacious.
‘Well, you didn’t lose much time,’ he admitted. ‘You sounded as though it didn’t matter a damn.’
‘I had visitors,’ said the Toff briefly. ‘Are you sure of this?’
‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ said Brendon, ‘and I wouldn’t make a mistake like that. Damn it, Sylvia might be around. I—I had a hell of a job not to bust in, Rollison.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t; but what stopped you?’
‘Well …’ Brendon hesitated. ‘When all’s said and done, if you’re right about Jim, and he’s worried by something, I don’t want to do anything silly.’
A reasonable explanation, thought Rollison, and it showed that Brendon could use his head. It proved, also, that he was worried by the possibility that Jim Sanderson was frightened of the law – or of something less understandable.
For the moment the fact that he had seen Sanderson go into the house along Queen’s Road was the thing that mattered.
‘Number 29a,’ said Brendon. ‘He got out of a cab, and I saw him as he paid the man off. I was right up here, but I can swear to it being Sanderson.’
‘Good. What brought you here?’
Brendon shrugged.
‘It was an amazing stroke of luck. I’d read an advertisement about some photographic stuff on sale at Whiteley’s, and I wanted to have a look at it. I’m mad-keen on the camera, you know.’
Rollison eyed him keenly.
‘That all?’
‘Of course it’s all. What else should there be?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the Toff, and did not add that he was always suspicious when the gods seemed to drop manna on to his lap. But at least it was possible, and coincidences often happened; a fact he sometimes pointed out to McNab.
Nevertheless he was aware of an uncomfortable feeling that Brendon might not be telling the whole truth. Nor did he dismiss the possibility, although he did nothing more to suggest that he had doubts of the other’s story.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Brendon.
‘Call and ask for Sanderson,’ said the Toff promptly. ‘It will serve some purpose, anyhow. You stay within sight, but on the other side of the road, will you?’
Brendon agreed.
The Toff went to the door of Number 29a and rang the bell. There was a pause before footsteps shuffled towards the door, and after a lapse of thirty seconds it opened. An old man, wearing a ragged smoking-jacket with lapels liberally stained, wizened-face, and affecting a straggly, nicotine-embellished moustache, eyed him with rheumy, unwelcoming eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening,’ said the Toff amiably. ‘I believe a Mr. Sanderson is staying here. May I—’
‘You believe wrong,’ said the ancient. ‘Never heard of anyone o’ that name here, an’ I’ve lived around for forty years come Michaelmas.’
‘Really?’ said the Toff, and he seemed surprised. ‘But I was assured that Mr. Sanderson—’
‘You were assured wrong, young man. I haven’t any time to waste, so—’
‘It’s hardly wasting time,’ the Toff said easily. ‘I am a police officer, and a man answering the description of a James Sanderson is believed to be staying here.’ He still spoke affably, even though he knew that if his statement was challenged it might lead to some difficulties. It was not the first time he had represented himself to be a C.I.D. man, and he did not expect that it would be the last.
The ancient looked startled for the first time.
‘The police, are you? Well, why didn’t you say so? Where’s your card?’
The Toff put his hand to his pocket and half withdrew his wallet. As he expected, the ancient waved it away, and rubbed a wrinkled hand across his moustache.
‘Never mind. I know a policeman when I sees one; I thought you was from the start. You want to see the register, I suppose? Not that I’ve got to keep one by law; this isn’t a hotel, it’s a boarding-house for private people, that’s all. But come in, don’t stand there all the time. I don’t want all Queen’s Road to know my business.’
He stood aside, and the Toff entered a narrow, gloomy passagecum-hallway. In a drawer of a table standing in a recess was the register, and the ancient took it out and opened it for the Toff to read. Rollison glanced at the four signatures that had been entered during the last ten days. Certainly the name of Sanderson was not among them, but—
He glanced up at the ancient.
And he had one of the major shocks of his life, for he also glanced up at an automatic held unwaveringly in the ancient’s hand.
At no time would the Toff admit that he should have been prepared for that.
There were occasions when he had made mistakes, and he was always the first to admit them. But to find the automatic there, to know that he was threatened by the ancient, came with a shock of real surprise.
‘Police!’ snapped the ancient. ‘I could see you wasn’t a mile off! Don’t move your hands! I—Come on, Charlie, hurry up! There’s a gentleman wants some attention.’
Charlie – obviously summoned by bell, for the old man had not raised his voice – loomed out of the gloom of the passage near the foot of the stairs. The Toff made him out to be a burly, broad-shouldered man whose face was in the shadows; he was one of the roughnecks of the ‘Steam Packet’.
The shock was over.
The Toff ’s mind was beginning to work on more normal lines, and he realised the implications of this affair. Sanderson, if it had been Sanderson, was in this house which was occupied by Hi Ling’s hirelings. It showed the wideness of Hi Ling’s scope, it suggested that Brendon had been right.
And if he had, then Sanderson was in some way connected with the Hi Ling enterprise.
No more than a minute had passed since he had first seen the gun. Now he smiled, and spoke amiably, as if nothing untoward had happened.
‘Nice goings-on, little man. You did that well.’
‘I do everything well,’ said the old one gruffly. ‘And I don’t want none o’ your lip. I—What’s the matter, Charlie?’
For Charlie had uttered a single, expressive oath.
The Toff knew why, knew that he had been recognised. It had its amusing side to see the startled expression on the roughneck’s face, but he had little cause for amusement. The old one was between him and the door, Charlie between him and the stairs. In the narrow passage there was no room for free action, and he felt then that he was trapped – for the time being at least.
It was not a nice feeling.
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‘What—’ began the ancient again.
‘It’s the Torf!’ gasped Charlie. ‘I—’
And then Rollison moved.
He knew that if he did not get away now there was small chance of his ever doing so. He kicked backwards towards the ancient, hitting the man on the shin sharply enough to make him gasp and to lower his gun. At the same moment he lunged forward and struck at the roughneck. His fist connected, but not heavily. A wild kick caught him on the knee and sent an excruciating pain through his leg. He tried to ignore it, swung round and tried to pass the ancient, but his knee gave way and he almost fell.
Staggering, he saw the old one raise the gun, butt foremost.
Nothing Rollison could do could stop it, and the butt crashed on to the back of his neck. There was only a split second between realization of what was coming and the actuality. He felt the blow, the resultant pain – and then he thumped down.
The ancient kicked him, once vigorously and once as if he enjoyed doing it.
‘Get him upstairs,’ he said. ‘Go on, Charlie. The Toff, is it? Won’t Hi Ling be pleased?’
Hi Ling was pleased.
He received the message by telephone while at the office of the Dougall-Ling Shipping Company, and at first he found it hard to believe. Convinced, he gave orders that the Toff should be kept at 29a Queen’s Road until he was able to get there, and he did not have to emphasise the need for tying Rollison securely and making sure that he could not escape.
‘Did you see anyone else?’ he asked the ancient.
‘There’s a young fella hanging around, but I’m not sure he was with Rollison.’
‘Young fellow—he is fair, and square-shouldered, and he looks angry?’
‘Well, that’s a good guess.’ The ancient seemed startled.
‘My fliend,’ said Hi Ling softly, ‘take word yourself to that young man and tell him Mr. Rollison wishes to see him at the house immediately. Get him inside, and do precisely the same as you did to Rollison. I shall want them both, you understand?’
‘All right, I’ll do that.’
The ancient shuffled down the steps of the house, seeing Brendon on the opposite side of the road, staring at him with patent curiosity. He beckoned, and Brendon walked over, with no idea of what might happen. To him it seemed obvious that Rollison had sent a message of sorts.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the ancient respectfully, ‘but the gentleman who just called said that he would like you to come in at once. He says the matter is most urgent.’
‘Right-ho!’ said Brendon, and he did not know whether to be pleased or relieved. At least it suggested that Rollison had found something.
Was Sanderson inside?
If so, would he explain why he and Sylvia had disappeared?
Brendon stepped over the threshold, and did not see the leg of the roughneck stretched out to trip him up. He went sprawling, the door closed abruptly, and the butt of a revolver descended effectively on the nape of his neck.
Chapter Fifteen
Unfortunate For Chamberlain
Mr. Arnold Chamberlain had been lucky in many respects in his association with Hi Ling and Dougall.
Those two gentlemen of the criminal profession, although they had not been active in England long, had for many years had associations in London, and had turned them to advantage quickly. The boarding-house in Bayswater was an excellent hiding-place for aliens who were smuggled into the country, and who wished not to report daily – or weekly or monthly – to the police. It was also a clearing-house for other smuggled goods, and the ancient was an efficient manager, receiving good pay, and yet satisfied to leave the reins of control in someone else’s hands.
Chamberlain, on starting his connection with the other two, had realised the possible value of the house in Bays-water, and he had used it on occasions. But the last thing he had expected was that Rollison should walk into the house and virtually offer himself for slaughter.
Like Hi Ling, he found it hard to believe.
When he was finally convinced, he took off his horn-rimmed glasses and passed a hand across his forehead. Then he grinned. Then he began to laugh – low pitched, effective laughter which hit loudly against Hi Ling’s ears and did not please the Chinaman. He quietened at last, and: ‘Very nice work, Hi Ling, that’s very good indeed. Now we’ve got nothing to worry about, nothing. What are you doing with them—both of them? By hell, it’s good to believe!’
‘I am keeping them for you,’ said Hi Ling. ‘There is much Rollison may know. He may have told others. It will be well to ask questions.’
‘He won’t be a talker.’
Hi Ling said softly: ‘I can find ways of making even the great Rollison talk, my fliend, have no fears of that. A little pain—perhaps a little more. But it is important you should come soon. We do not require the two men alive too long. There is always a chance that waiting men will prove a mistake.’
‘I’ll be over. Where will you have them?’
‘It is quite safe at Queen’s Road. There is a cellar, and no sounds will get through.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ said Chamberlain. ‘Prompt!’
He replaced the receiver, sat back and chuckled to himself, lit a cigarette, and then considered the Sheraton table which Lowerby had brought. Lowerby had not been in the office many minutes before Chamberlain had agreed to buy the table for eighty pounds, showing the doctor a handsome profit. Lowerby could not understand how Chamberlain was so easily taken in, for even he knew that it was not genuine.
It did not occur to Lowerby that Mr. Meer should have known also. Lowerby was one of those men who were always so satisfied with their own self-efficiency that it did not occur to them to think beyond it. As far as he knew, he was co-operating with Chamberlain chiefly on the matter of illegal supplies of drugs, and other things which loomed less important. The buying and selling of the antiques was a side-line that made him feel that he was putting one over Chamberlain, and delighted him.
Chamberlain also seemed delighted as he examined the table.
He ran his thumb along the bottom ledge of the surrounds, and suddenly touched a slight protuberance. He pressed harder, heard a faint whirring sound, and saw a small drawer that opened abruptly. In the drawer was a wash-leather bag. In the bag were several small diamonds and a ruby of quite unusual size.
Chamberlain examined them, and chuckled with satisfaction.
And then, with the drawer open, and the jewels on the surface of the table, the door opened.
Chamberlain heard the preliminary tap on it, and made a grab at the gems, but he was too late. On the threshold stood the two C.I.D. men who had been watching the showrooms.
Chamberlain did not know that McNab, urged by the Assistant Commissioner to quicker results, had ordered his men to interrogate Chamberlain on a comparatively minor matter – the payment of duty on some of his furs. He had also given instructions for the visit to be made without warning – but even McNab, in his wildest moments of optimism, did not dream of the evidence of crime available.
The C.I.D. men saw the table, the open drawer and the jewels.
There was nothing in the world to prevent Chamberlain claiming that they were his, that he had every right to hide them as he wanted to. In different circumstances, and had the Toff not already alarmed him, he might have tried the bluff, although it would have been a bad moment. As it was, he stared at the two young, determined-looking plain-clothes men, and there was ample evidence of alarm and guilt in his expression. It had happened at the one moment when Chamberlain’s defences were down – and that was partly due to his good humour at the knowledge of the Toff ’s coming fate.
The taller man spoke brusquely.
‘I’d like you to explain those, sir.’
Chamberlain snapped: ‘What the hell are you doing here? I—’
‘We are police officers.’ said the spokesman, and he did not propose to allow what seemed a glorious chance of a triumph to pass out of his hands. He was pr
epared even to bluff, without, of course, doing anything against police regulations. And there was nothing against asking questions, or opening a door after tapping on it.
‘Why, you—’ snarled Chamberlain.
It was a moment when he was liable to lose his head, when the training of years was likely to come uppermost. Not for the first time Chamberlain was faced with police and a situation that opened the gates of a gaol. Not for the first time did he act as he did then.
He snatched a Luger from a shoulder-holster.
Both men looked startled; they had no time to be afraid.
‘Now then, don’t—’
Chamberlain fired the silenced automatic.
He touched the trigger four times, and each bullet found a home. Both men fell, their faces showing the utter surprise that reached them just before death. Small round holes showed in their foreheads; both reared up oddly before they crumpled up. Their falling made two distinct thudding sounds on the thick carpet; the blood oozing from their heads began to spread.
Chamberlain stared down for a moment, expressionless.
Then he stepped towards them. He touched their wrists, made sure that their pulses were not beating, and drew back. From a cloak-room he fetched a towel and slipped it beneath their heads to prevent the blood staining the carpet. Then he sat back at his desk and began to think.
And he knew he had made a fateful mistake; he might have got away with the killing in the States, but there he would have had a network of gangster-lawyers as well as graft-rotten police to help him. Even they were lessening in the States – the chief reason he had come abroad.
Now …
He knew that in the moment of alarm he had reverted to type. The ingrained instinct of the killer had revealed itself, as it had done in the earlier days of Prohibition in Chicago. He had killed mercilessly and without warning, but he had to face the consequences of that in the best-policed country in the world.
Cold sweat beaded Chamberlain’s forehead.
He seemed to feel the handcuffs about his wrists.
