by John Creasey
Rollison poured himself another drink.
‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘The statement stands on simple truth.’
‘You’re crazy! I know she’s a beauty. I know she’s a nice girl, if you don’t probe too far into her family and her own recent history. She’s a damned good little actress, too, and just the type to make you lie for her – your damned quixoticism will get you in trouble one of these days. I can even believe that you think she’s innocent, and want to help her – but she’s as guilty as hell. If you start building up an alibi for Elizabeth Lane you’ll be charged as an accessory,’ Grice added flatly. ‘It’s as serious as that.’
Rollison said, ‘Well, well, we’re getting all worked up. Bill, cool off for a minute and listen to me.’ His gaze was steady, there was no smile in his eyes or at his lips. He held Grice’s gaze, too, although the Yard man was obviously impatient. ‘I left the Country House Hotel at half past eight last night with Elizabeth Lane, who called herself Marion. Except for ten minutes during the dance at Latchet’s Roadhouse, we were together until half past two. That’s the truth.’
Grice swung round and began to pace the room. He saw the pencilled note, glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. ‘You’re lying,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be lying.’
‘No, Bill.’
‘Then you were there when she killed Keller,’ Grice said heavily. ‘You see, we know she killed Keller at about nine-thirty in the evening. There isn’t any doubt. She was seen with him at Hexley, just after he left the inn there and went for a walk. A girl she knows was there on holiday. The girl recognised her dress, saw her from behind, tried to catch her up, and called her. She ignored the call and disappeared, with Keller. They met near the spot where he was found dead this morning. Other things were—’
He broke off, abruptly.
Rollison chuckled.
‘Don’t tell me too much, Bill.’
‘I won’t tell you too much. You ought to be satisfied that if I say she killed Keller, there isn’t any doubt about it. Either you’ve got to withdraw your alibi for her, or we’ll have to hold you. That’s it and all about it. That alibi is proof that you’re lying, she couldn’t be in two places at once. Now, face up to it. You can’t help her. Even if you think you’re digging into a juicy case and by helping her will get to the bottom of it, give it up. It’s red hot. I can square it with the Devon people, provided you drop the whole thing.’
‘Liz may be a bad lot, but she didn’t kill Harry Keller at Hexley last night, or anyone else anywhere else,’ Rollison said. ‘You’ve been led up the garden, Bill. Has this girlfriend any grievance?’
‘None. We had her in mind because of her known association with Keller. Allen did an astute bit of work, the girlfriend said her piece before she knew what had happened. And there was a note in the Lane girl’s room – a telephone message asking her to go and meet Keller, at Hexley.’
‘She didn’t go.’
Grice went to the window, looked out, and raised a hand. That little movement had a significance which put alarm into Rollison – real alarm, for the first time. He looked at the note, and wished he’d never asked Grice about a set of Keller’s prints. The note would prove an association with Keller. Grice turned round; he had signalled to a man who had been waiting for him in the street, and the signal was to tell the man to come upstairs. Grice was here as a friend; and couldn’t do anything much by himself. Directly a sergeant or detective officer joined him, he would become a policeman.
He wanted the man up here, because two were needed to go through the routine of an arrest.
‘Why did you ask for Harry’s fingerprints?’ Grice demanded.
He looked towards the desk and went to it; Rollison felt sick with alarm, but didn’t show it.
He could hear footsteps on the stairs, some distance below, as he leaned back as if he hadn’t a care.
Grice picked up the note, read it, and barked, ‘When did this come?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Yesterday, probably. If Harry actually wrote it, it came after he left Devon. Either he came to London and slipped that into the letter-box, or someone else did it for him. He knew I was in Devon, so it doesn’t add up. I suppose you’re sure he’s dead.’
‘He’s dead, all right.’
Grice took a fold of paper from his pocket – a foolscap sheet. The footsteps stopped outside, so the man’s instructions had been to wait on the landing until he was called. Rollison went across to the desk and looked at the ten prints daubed on Grice’s official foolscap form – prints of Harry Keller. Grice took a magnifying-glass from his pocket to examine those on the envelope.
He didn’t speak.
Rollison moved back.
Outwardly he was quite calm, inwardly he was in turmoil. If he stuck to his story, there would be an arrest. He wouldn’t be much good to himself or anyone else in jail. The whole setup lacked reason, but Grice was sure of himself and wasn’t going to take half-measures.
Rollison felt suffocated, and it wasn’t just because of the heat.
Grice put both sets of prints down.
‘They’re his, and that makes it pretty clear that you had dealings with him,’ he spoke in a low-pitched grating voice. ‘Rolly, listen to me. Elizabeth Lane met Harry Keller last night, about half past nine, and killed him. There was time for you to drive her from the hotel, go to Hexley, and then go to the roadhouse. Allen’s checked that. I don’t believe you just drove around. I can’t believe you would cover up if you knew what she’d done. She either left you at Hexley or you’re lying about the drive. She’s still loose, because she’ll lead us to others. We’ll pick her up when we want to, I’ve a warrant. She’s in a big racket, and we’ve been after the mob for some time. You probably know all about it and think this is a short cut to the leaders. It isn’t. If you stand by your story, I’ve no alternative but to detain you. That will mean a police-court hearing in the morning and an eight-day remand in custody. Get that into your thick head, and tell me the truth.’
Rollison’s feeling of suffocation faded completely, because he had decided what to do.
‘Sorry, Bill,’ he said.
He clenched his fist and smacked an uppercut beneath Grice’s chin. Grice’s teeth snapped together, his eyes rolled. Rollison grabbed him before he fell and lowered him to the floor.
Grice lay still.
Rollison turned to the hall, and listened; there was no sound. He went to the desk and unlocked the top drawer. He took out a Yale key, glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket. Then he put an automatic and two spare clips of ammunition into another pocket, added a packet of cigarettes, hesitated, and took out a small sheathed knife which was fastened to a piece of blue elastic that looked like a sock suspender. Next he went to the kitchen and unlocked the back door.
He stepped out on to the fire-escape.
Grice hadn’t stationed a man in the yard at the back of the houses in Gresham Terrace; hadn’t really believed that the man in the street would be necessary. Rollison hurried down the iron steps, his feet clattering. He reached the concrete yard and looked up; there was only the closed kitchen-door. He walked towards the alley, which led to another street.
Inside an hour, there would be a general call out for him.
VII
GRICE
Grice came round slowly.
His head was heavy and his jaw painful, and at first he did not recall what had happened. He knew he was lying in a crumpled heap, and his right leg was bent beneath him. He straightened it. The knee joint cracked and the sharp sound brought back memory. He stiffened, lying flat on the floor. Incredulity showed in his brown eyes, dazed from the brief unconsciousness.
‘The—damned—fool,’ he said, sotto voce. Yet his voice sounded loud.
It had to be done.
He dialled a telephone number, savagely – WHI 1212. A girl operator answered him.
‘Put me through to Mr. Medley – and hurry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The girl obviously recognised his voice.
Medley came on the line, speaking in a slow, unflurried voice with a slight North Country accent. Nothing harassed Medley, he was as steady and stolid as they came, and a good man at his job. Grice could picture him, big and compact, coat off, sleeves rolled up, sprawling across the desk to get at the telephone.
‘That you, Bill?’
‘Yes, listen. Rollison …’
Grice paused.
He could say that Rollison had knocked him out, and that would do two things: make a complete fool of him, which didn’t much matter, and add a charge of assaulting a policeman. Nothing would get Rollison out of that. He gulped.
‘Well, has he come across?’ asked Medley.
‘No.’ Grice was brusque. ‘He fooled me. Slipped out the back way. Put out a general call, will you?’
Medley gasped, ‘For Rollison?’
‘He isn’t above the law yet,’ Grice said sourly.
Medley almost squeaked.
‘So he’s done it, this time! I always knew—where are you? His flat?’
‘Yes. Don’t lose any time.’
Grice put down the receiver. Medley would sit back and grin to himself; he had never relished Rollison or his reputation. Then he would burst into a chuckle, and start the wires humming. Grice looked down at the receiver glumly. It was the only possible thing to do, there had never been a chance of avoiding doing it, yet – he wished it weren’t necessary.
He went to the front door, and opened it. A Detective Sergeant hurried forward from a corner of the landing.
Grice growled, ‘Get back to the Yard, Sims. Rollison slipped out the back way. His car should be outside, I doubt if he’d use that – haven’t heard a car start off, have you?’
‘I—I’ve heard cars.’
‘Check it. Then get to the Yard quickly. Ask them to make sure all his usual haunts are watched, and pay special attention to these three – ready?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Lady Gloria Hurst’s apartment, Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium, and the Blue Dog, Wapping. Wherever Jolly is staying – there’s a note of that in my office, it’s somewhere in Bournemouth. All hotels, all the general places. I’ll look round here.’
‘Right!’
Sims hurried off.
Bill Ebbutt, a massive man running to fat, nearly bald, with one cauliflower ear, a flattened nose, and the general appearance of the old-time bruiser, leaned against a cornerpost at one of the two rings in his East End gymnasium, and breathed through parted lips as he watched two heavyweights grappling with each other like sleek but clumsy bears. Every now and again, he narrowed one eye, as if to try to see better. Suddenly, he stood up, and turned to a diminutive man in a canary yellow sweater, who stood by his side.
‘’Eavyweights?’ he sneered. ‘Go and bury them.’
He turned to the second ring, where a couple of bantam-weights, neither of them far into their teens, were ripping into each other. He began to smile; he liked a good fighter better than he liked anything in the world. He had been a useful man with his fists, and for years had trained more young hopes than any other man in London.
The gymnasium was a huge corrugated-iron building. All the paraphernalia stood about – parallel bars, skipping ropes, cycles, punch-balls, vaulting-horses; and all were in use. Forty or fifty men of all ages, but most of them young, made use of the gymnasium every night and paid a modest sixpence for admission.
The bantam-weights stopped at a word from a lanky man who acted as unofficial referee.
‘Not bad, not bad at all, kids,’ said Ebbutt; and from him, that was praise. ‘Now go and ‘ave a shower an’ a rub dahn.’
He nodded and heaved his great bulk towards the tiny office in a corner, away from the door which led to the street. The office, with a high desk and a high stool and one upright chair, looked crowded when he stepped inside. The walls were covered with photographs of young men stripped for the ring and crouching – and of newspaper photographs and cuttings. In a glass case half a dozen silver cups shone bright and new.
A man called, ‘’Ere, Bill!’
That was almost a sacrilege. Ebbutt was a kindly and generous man, but king in his own domain; and he expected and usually received respect. No casual friend called him Bill when the youngsters were about. He glowered towards the door, for he had recognised the hoarse voice of a man who should have known better.
‘Bill!’ It was a tall, lanky man in a scarlet sweater, who had a newspaper in his hand and came tearing across the gymnasium, pushing several of the lads aside as he came. There was a dazed look in his eyes.’’Ere – Bill!’
He reached the door.
‘What do you want, Mister Skinner?’ asked Ebbutt, in his most bull-like voice, which was laden with what he fondly imagined to be withering sarcasmThe man in the scarlet sweater and grey flannels had a wizened face, and both his ears were of the cauliflower variety. He came in, holding up the Evening Echo.
‘Look at this,’ he breathed.
‘I don’t want to look at anyfink,’ Ebbutt said in a voice of dangerous calm. ‘You oughta know by now—’
‘Put a sock in it,’ snapped Skinner. ‘Look at that! The Torf ’s wanted.’
Ebbutt, his mouth open to protest again, stopped, gulped, and blinked. In order to read he needed glasses; outside the office and his own home he refused to acknowledge that. So he closed the door, and took a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from a drawer in the desk, glowered at Skinner, sat on the stool and glanced down at the paper.
Scotland Yard tonight issued a warrant for the arrest of the Hon. Richard Rollison.
‘Now do you berlieve me?’ crowed Skinner. ‘An’ listen, Bill, there’s a couple of busies ahtside, wondered ‘oo they was arter. Don’t need no more tellin’, do yer – they think the Torf might come ‘ere. Take a tip – turn ‘im in if he does, they wouldn’t be arter ‘im if it wasn’t sunnink pretty bad.’
Ebbutt stared at him blankly.
If he had to choose between his love of the ring and his devotion to Rollison, it would be an even struggle; and Rollison would probably win.
Lady Gloria Hurst, a tall, elderly, and patrician looking woman, the one relative for whom Rollison had genuine regard – she was his aunt – woke just after seven-thirty next morning, to find the maid who had brought her tea standing by the bedside and goggling down. Lady Gloria did not like being goggled at even by a favourite maid.
‘What on earth is the matter with you? Pour out my tea, Bessie, and then draw the curtains.’
‘Yes—yes, m’lady, but …’
‘Bessie, if you have anything to say, please say it.’
Sleep took the edge off Lady Gloria’s voice and the eagle brightness from her grey eyes.
‘It—it’s Mr. Rollison, m’lady, he—’
‘Richard? He’s not hurt?’
Lady Gloria, alarmed, stretched out for the morning papers, selected the Record, and read the streamer headline on the front page.
WARRANT OUT FOR THE TOFF DEVON MURDER SENSATION
Beneath this was a photograph of Rollison and another of Marion-Liz, looking at her loveliest.
Lady Gloria felt the cold hand of fear clutch at her heart. The maid actually went forward, as if to help her, but she sat up, thrust the paper aside, and said clearly: ‘I always knew the police were fools.’
But the fear lurked in her eyes, even when the maid had poured out tea and left.
At half past seven that morning a man emerged from a small hotel near one of Bournemouth’s wooded chines, braced himself in the clear morning air, went out of the trim front garden, and walked across a tarred road towards the cliff-top and the beach below. He chose to walk along the cliff-top, overlooking Bournemouth Bay. Old Harry Rock, defending Swanage, rose clearly out of a faint mist; and across the bay to the south-east the white cliffs of the Isle of Wight were gradually emerging. Nearer, the yellow sand which fringed the huge bay, and the pine-clad, sandston
e cliffs rising from the promenade merged with graceful beauty. The pier stretched out; small boats were drawn up on the beach.
The man, who was of medium height and had a somewhat doleful face and large, doe-like brown eyes, walked briskly along. He had a scraggy chin and neck, as if he had once been fat and had lost weight recently. His cheeks were criss-crossed with lines, too, and there were a myriad crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. Yet he walked with a springy step and did not really look old.
He appeared to be enjoying himself, for he sniffed the air occasionally, although he did not smile. He was dressed in a light-grey suit which somehow did not seem right for him – he was a man who habitually dressed in black. One other man was also having a cliff-top walk, and strolled behind the man in grey.
The first was Jolly, Rollison’s manservant for nearly twenty years.
When he returned to the hotel, a whistling newspaper-boy cycled towards the front gate with a bunch of newspapers under his arm.
‘Care to take ’em in, sir?’
‘Yes, I will oblige you,’ said Jolly primly.
‘Ta.’
The boy thrust the papers into Jolly’s grasp. Jolly winced slightly and the boy went off, still whistling. There were thirty or forty papers in a roll. Jolly did not undo them until he reached the hall. There, another guest was waiting for them, a man whom Jolly knew slightly by now.
“Morning, Mr. Jolly!’
‘Good morning,’ said Jolly. ‘You are waiting for one of these, no doubt.’
‘Can’t wait any longer,’ the man said. ‘I want to know the form at Newmarket.’
Jolly handed him the first paper in the bunch, and then glanced down at the next – a Daily Sun. He actually moved back a pace, as if someone had pushed him. Slowly, he raised his hands. His face looked as if he had just read of the end of the world. He did not even look round, or he would have seen the man who had been walking behind him on the cliff-top, strolling up and down the road.
