by John Creasey
He saw that it was impossible to stay here. The place was lost to him and all there was in it. The Yard would be inquiring very quickly about the two missing detectives. He might have less than an hour in which to work.
He pressed a bell, and his finger was unsteady. As he waited he filled a glass with whisky and drank off half of it at a stretch. The door opened and Jaggers stepped in, to stop in sudden alarm at the sight of the bodies.
‘Gawd! Boss—’
‘Don’t waste time!’ snapped Chamberlain. ‘They’d come to pick me up. Have someone over from the “Steam Packet” in a hurry, and get the bodies into a big packing-case. Have a van round to take it to Aldgate; Hi Ling will look after it.’
‘Oo-kay,’ muttered Jaggers; but his eyes would not leave the two dead men.
‘Move in a hustle!’ snapped Chamberlain. ‘We’ve got to be out of here in half an hour.’
Jaggers disappeared.
Chamberlain took his keys from his pocket and opened the wall-safe behind his desk. He wasted no time in looking through the papers and other things, but crammed them into a suit-case he had waiting and empty. He took every paper that could possibly betray him from the desk, then went into the three rooms that served him as a flat and did the same. It took him twenty-five minutes, and when he went back into the office Jaggers and a man from Aldgate were lifting the bodies and putting them into a big packing-case, normally containing furs for import or export.
‘All right,’ Chamberlain said, as the bodies were inside. ‘Nail it down safely and then get away. Keep it at the “Steam Packet” for the time being, or at the docks. Don’t do anything until you’ve heard from Hi Ling.’
‘Okay,’ said Jaggers. Used to violence as he was, this had scared him. Killings did not matter; the chance of being found out did, and Jaggers had a healthy regard for the effectiveness of the London C.I.D. ‘Where do I find you, Boss?’
‘I’ll get in touch when I want you. Here’s something to be going on with.’ Chamberlain had left a wad of one-pound notes on the desk, and he handed them to the man with the squint. ‘That’s a hundred. Keep right away from this place, understand?’
‘Ye-ep. But, Boss, Rollison—’
For the first time since the entry of the police Chamberlain laughed, and it was not pleasant to hear.
‘He’s all right. Don’t worry about that.’
‘But—’
‘Hi Ling’s got him,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t argue.’
Jaggers stared.
‘He’s got—Gawd, I don’t believe it!’
Chamberlain swore at him, and went out of the office. He did not go into Oxford Street, but through a rear entrance into a side-street, where he walked swiftly to Piccadilly Circus. Judging it safe to hire a cab from there, he was driven to Bayswater Road Station, where he alighted, paid the cab, and then walked towards Number 29a.
He was not followed.
Now that it had happened he felt calm enough, and capable of dealing with any emergency. But he had to work fast; the need was greater even than before.
But he did not propose to let the unexpected development put him off the Sanderson job. Nor the Toff …
Rollison had started this.
Until he had interfered there had been not the slightest suggestion of trouble from the police. The first signs of it had followed on the Toff ’s heels, but that would have been a lot more worrying if Rollison had been free.
Chamberlain laughed aloud as he entered the house, and was greeted first by the ancient and then Hi Ling, who was in an upstairs room.
‘Rollison,’ said Hi Ling, ‘is next door, mistah. And Brendon is, too.’
‘Let’s get them handled,’ said Chamberlain sharply. ‘Have them taken downstairs, and don’t waste any time about it. Do everything short of tearing his tongue out; he wants that for speaking with.’
Hi Ling laughed.
‘He shall talk, mistah; do not worry about that.’
Chief Inspector Horace McNab was not a man who did things on the spur of the moment. He had decided that if there were no results from his talk with Rollison he would start working more openly against Chamberlain, who, the past few days had helped to prove, was not unconnected with certain undesirable elements in the East End.
McNab expected a report by seven o’clock. It did not come.
By eight his men were still missing.
At half past he went with a sergeant to the Oxford Street showrooms, but found no one – not even a caretaker – in. The flat which Chamberlain used as living-quarters appeared to be empty, and without a warrant McNab hesitated to break in. At considerable risk to his self-esteem, he telephoned the Assistant Commissioner and reported. That gentleman suggested McNab came to see him. McNab obliged, taking with him the evidence of a patrol policeman that the two C.I.D. officers had been seen entering the showrooms, but had not been seen to come out.
A warrant was signed.
The premises were broken open and searched, but there was no one in them, no signs of the two C.I.D. men’s presence. There were signs of hurried departure, however, while McNab, always a thorough officer, fancied he saw a damp patch in the middle of a thick-piled modern Indian carpet. At his suggestion the stain was examined by a police surgeon, the moisture was extracted and taken for analysis. Within two hours the assurance that it was human blood was given by the pathologist who had been urged to work so late, and for the first time McNab allowed himself to consider the possibility of more murder.
He went to see Rollison.
All he found was Jolly, who of course revealed very little, but did go as far as to say that he had expected to find his employer in.
McNab was more than usually brusque.
‘All right, Jolly. Have him call me at my house the moment he gets in touch with you. Make sure of it.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Jolly closed the door behind the inspector but did not grimace at his thoughts of McNab, whom he secretly considered to have the intelligence of an ox – which was unjust.
For Jolly was worried about Rollison.
Chapter Sixteen
Methods Of Persuasion
The Toff had many rules – and often said that he obeyed none of them. That was not strictly true, for he followed his own principles faithfully, although he knew many variations of them. One essential, however, was that of facing facts; nothing was gained by pretending things were not as they were; he had always maintained that, and had a habit of advising others on the same point.
He faced facts that evening.
He recovered consciousness half an hour after he had been knocked out, and for the first ten minutes he had been concerned only with the aching in his head and the painful burning at his eyes. They had eased eventually, and he had found that his hands and feet were bound, that he was lying on a bed, that the room was in darkness, and he was not alone.
The soft breathing of another prisoner came clearly to his ears.
He waited five minutes before he tried to call out – although a handkerchief tied tightly across his lips made clear utterance impossible. He contrived a sound that earned no response three times in quick succession.
Whoever was with him was asleep or unconscious. The Toff reasoned that the latter was more likely, and also that it might be Brendon. He thought again of the youngster’s story.
Had he been at Queen’s Road by sheer chance?
Or had he lied?
Rollison believed that it was most likely that he had told a half-truth, and fancied that Brendon had had some reason for going to Whiteley’s or nearby. It was even possible that he had deliberately lured the Toff to Number 29a. That might explain the fact that he had waited for the Toff instead of doing what was more typical of him and going like a bull at a gate to the house.
The Toff disliked the theory, but had to admit its possibility.
He could see daylight through a faint gap in the curtains that covered the window, but that meant little, for the June days were long, and d
aylight would last until nearly ten o’clock. He had entered the house, as nearly as he could judge, at seven o’clock. All the daylight did was to tell him he had not been unconscious more than two and a half hours.
And then, after a silence that had seemed to be unending, after a sequence of futile thoughts, he heard a sound. The sound grew more distinct, and he knew that footsteps were echoing on a flight of stairs. In a few seconds he heard them more clearly, and knew they were approaching the room.
A key was inserted in the lock.
The door opened and light filled the small room in which he was imprisoned. It was typical of him that he did not look immediately towards the door but to the small bed alongside that on which he was lying. He saw Brendon, in the same fix as himself, but still unconscious, and he knew that the youngster had not played any part in a trick to get him here. The fact relieved his mind of one anxiety.
He looked at the newcomers narrowly.
There were two – the roughneck he had already met and Nigger Dougall. Dougall was smiling, and it was not a nice smile. He looked at the Toff, and his lips turned further back, but he did not speak. Instead he showed a knife that he was carrying, while the roughneck cut the cords at Rollison’s feet and pushed his legs to the floor.
‘Get up an’ walk,’ said Dougall.
The Toff found his legs unsteady, and his ankles painful, hut he contrived to move towards the door.
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Dougall. ‘Don’t make no mistakes, Roll’son, you ain’t got a chance in hel’ve getting away.’
With his hands tied behind him and the gag across his mouth the Toff was prepared to admit the point. He stood unsteadily while Brendon was roughly awakened by the simple expedient of pouring a jug of water over his face. Brendon was dragged to his feet, and the two prisoners were forced to go downstairs. There were three flights, all difficult to negotiate, but Brendon stumbled more than the Toff, who was trying not to think.
A narrow passage, and then more stairs, obviously leading to a cellar. Rollison went steadily onwards, and as they reached the bottom of the steps heard Chamberlain’s voice. The words were spoken softly, but he caught the drift: ‘Well, it’s done, and you’ve got to get rid’ve the bodies. Understand that?’
Hi Ling said softly: ‘Most foolish, Chamberlain. Policemen are bad men to kill.’
‘Never mind that, I—Keep quiet!’
Chamberlain had heard the sound of approach, and when the Toff was pushed into the cellar, which was brilliantly lighted but poorly furnished as well as dusty, the American was looking towards the door. He was sitting on a wooden chair, and Hi Ling was standing imperturbably by him.
Chamberlain’s eyes glittered as Dougall removed Rollison’s gag.
‘Awake, are you, Rollison?’
‘And alive, for some odd reason,’ said the Toff. It was the truth that he did not expect to get out of the house alive, although he was prepared to snatch at the slightest chance if it were offered. He knew that the only reason he had not been killed off-hand was that he had frightened Chamberlain by hinting at knowledge which others might have learned.
Chamberlain laughed.
‘Don’t you worry about that. We don’t kill for the sake of it. I want to have a talk with you.’
‘It’s nice to be friendly,’ said the Toff.
‘Not too much mouth.’ Chamberlain glanced at Hi Ling, who had pushed Brendon into a chair, for the youngster was finding it difficult to keep on his feet. Rollison was steady, and he glanced at the Chinaman, who was smoking a newly lit cigarette. ‘You don’t have to worry—’
‘Why not save yourself time and trouble?’ asked the Toff amiably, and he showed no sign of the fear that was in him – a fear of both pain and death, which he had never claimed he did not possess. It was man’s reaction under fear, not fear itself, that branded some folk cowards. ‘I’m not talking. What I know and others know just isn’t coming to you.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Rollison. There’s no need to get annoyed because—’
The Toff chuckled – and to those watching, even Hi Ling, it was something to demand admiration, particularly after he had spoken again.
‘Chamberlain, give me credit for a little common sense. This is a cellar, and sounds won’t travel. Hi Ling comes of a country which specialises in methods of persuasion. I’ve never seen him smoking before, and I know what he’s got the cigarette for. Most painful, especially beneath the arms.
‘You’re cool!’ exclaimed Chamberlain.
‘It is a brave man, yes,’ said Hi Ling. ‘One could salute you, Rollison. But …’ He shrugged. ‘Remove his coat, Dougall, and other clothes.’
Rollison kept his balance while his wrist-bonds were cut, his coat, waistcoat, shirt and singlet were stripped off him, Brendon – also ungagged – was staring up, his eyes filled with horror, as if he could not believe what was going to happen. The calmness in the cellar, the utter lack of fear by Rollison, or feeling in the others, were enough to hypnotise most men, and they did Brendon.
‘I will talk,’ said Hi Ling. ‘Rollison, you have some knowledge. You will answer questions. Why did you go to this house?’
‘Now that,’ said the Toff, ‘is asking. I was interested in all your movements, Hi Ling. A respectable house—’
‘Lying will not help. You asked for a man.’
The Toff looked surprised.
‘Did I? Oh, yes; but I needed an excuse, I—’
Hi Ling moved his hand. Dougall, close to the Toff, gripped his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, causing a sharp, excruciating pain which made the Toff gasp. Brendon exclaimed, but no one else made a sound, while Chamberlain’s eyes were fixed on the Toff ’s.
‘Why did you think any one man was here?’ asked Hi Ling.
The Toff said nothing.
He was facing the inevitable, and knew it. Either now or in ten minutes they would ask a question that he would not answer, and he had given up all hope of bluffing Hi Ling. To answer anything at all was useless, it merely prolonged the ordeal, would make these men believe that under sufficient pressure he would crack.
The twisting of his arm increased.
He tightened his lips against the pain, and his forehead was suddenly beaded with sweat, but he gave no answer. Hi Ling stepped forward and moved the lighted cigarette towards the pit of Rollison’s arm, until the heat could be felt by the bared flesh.
‘Why, Rollison?’
Rollison forced a smile.
Hi Line took the cigarette a fraction nearer.
‘Why?
‘Oh, God!’ gasped Brendon. I can’t stand this! I’d seen Sanderson come in here. I told him, I—’
Hi Ling stepped back a pace, and there was triumph in his eyes. Chamberlain had leaned forward, his clenched fists on the rickety table in front of him in that characteristic, tell-tale attitude. He said slowly: ‘What do you know of Sanderson, Rollison?’
The Toff shrugged his free shoulder, an odd gesture.
‘You’re not getting any satisfaction from me,’ he said levelly. ‘You’d be wise to believe it, for otherwise it’s a waste of time. Brendon doesn’t know anything of the slightest importance; making him crack won’t help you. You’ve met something you can’t get past. Chamberlain, and if you kill us …’ He shrugged again, and there was a hard light in his eyes. It takes you a step nearer to the gallows, that’s all.’
‘You damned fool—’
‘Talk is so easy,’ said Hi Ling gently. ‘A little persuasion will make you think so diff ’lently, Rollison.’
He pushed the cigarette home.
Rollison started, and the pain sheered through him. There was a faint smell of burning hair and flesh. The cigarette stayed there, the pain grew almost unbearable, but he tightened his lips and gritted his teeth. He heard Brendon crying wildly that they must stop, even saw the roughneck kick at Brendon as the Australian tried to get up.
He felt weak with pain, but his eyes met Hi Ling’s evenly, unt
il at last the Chinaman stepped back.
‘So. We shall need to go further, Rollison. You are most foolish.’
‘Why the hell don’t you talk?’ snapped Chamberlain. ‘I’ve got nothing against you. I’m clearing out of the country and at the end of a week you can go free.’
‘Free?’ mocked the Toff. ‘I know Hi Ling and Dougall too well, Chamberlain; soft soap won’t work. The quicker you realise I’m not talking the quicker this business will be over. Got that?’
Chamberlain stared in silence.
Hi Ling shrugged, and slipped a small knife from his pocket – he was still dressed in European clothes.
‘Push his hand to the front, Dougall.’
Dougall obeyed. The movement of his arm caused a sharp pain at the burned spot, but Rollison said nothing as Dougall held his hand outwards. The fingers were steady; there was no shaking.
‘Beneath the finger-nails,’ Hi Ling said, ‘it is most—’
He did not finish, but the knife moved forward. Chamberlain seemed hardly to be breathing, Brendon was swearing, Dougall was grinning, and the roughneck turned his face away.
Chapter Seventeen
Nightmare
To the Toff it was a nightmare.
The temptation to talk was overwhelming, but he knew that he had to fight it back. The one hope of forcing these men into a fatal error was to keep them afraid.
If they knew what he knew they would no longer be that.
They would kill him. No matter what they promised in the effort to make him talk, as soon as this was over he would be murdered, and Brendon with him. There was no chance at all of any other result, and it would be better to die with the knowledge that psychological terrorism could still be effective than with the knowledge that they would go on without the fear of what he had told the police or others.
Had there seemed the slightest chance of saving his or Brendon’s life he would have talked.
There was none.
If help came it would be from the outside, and there was not the slightest probability of it.
He felt the silence in the cellar, the tenseness of the atmosphere. He watched the knife approaching his fingers with an almost impersonal, indifferent gaze.
