by John Creasey
Grice’s eyebrows went up.
‘Using an air pistol?’
‘I’m telling you what Nevett said. As a story, it could stand up. He and this chap have been here all the time, they came on the night Keller was killed. He won’t give the dead man’s name. Rollison arrived—’
‘How?’
‘Front door of the flat.’
Grice said thinly, ‘Rowse has got something. What do we get paid for?’
The sharp edge of anger was in his voice.
‘No one came in at the back or the front,’ Middleton said, ‘and that left the roof. I’ve had a man up there. No doubt Rollison came in through the skylight, it’s been forced open. The people in the top flat aren’t home yet, they went out early in the evening. Rollison came through there and down the stairs and forced the lock. The usual mica job, he can do that standing on his head.’
‘I know Rollison’s capability. Go on.’
Grice’s voice was like a whip, and Middleton’s face completely blank. The photographer finished and packed up his camera and tripod; two other men were taking measurements between the walls and the body on the floor.
‘Nevett said Rollison was after him, and he ran. He couldn’t get out by the street and ran upstairs, but we’d put a man up there by then.’
‘Well, well,’ said Grice. ‘Someone must be brilliant.’
The sarcasm was searing.
Middleton didn’t defend himself or the others.
‘So we caught him, and he yelled about Rollison and a gun. The inside doors were locked, and one was barricaded. By the time we had it down, Rollison had gone through the window, avoided the man on duty in the street, and got off. He had a car waiting – a fairly new Riley. I’ve put a call out.’
‘And when you’ve found it, how far away do you think Rollison will be?’ Grice walked across to the dead man. ‘Have you told them to get his picture round pretty quickly?’
‘Yes – copies to the Press, first. I’ve a feeling I’ve seen him about somewhere,’ Middleton went on. ‘The Street might know him – and Records might.’ He was obviously doubtful. ‘That’s most of it. Rowse said this was one address where he thought the girl might be and he’d called everywhere else, so tried this. Says he wasn’t sure she was here. He also says that it wasn’t Rollison but Nevett who shot this chap. The girl corroborated. They say they don’t know the dead man.’
‘What next?’
‘That’s about all,’ said Middleton. ‘We should have been prepared for Rollison to use the roof. And we should—’
‘Have had that top flat watched all the time. Nevett went upstairs, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘He might have been going to hide up there, the top flat could be rented by the same mob. We’ll break in …’
‘We’ve been in.’
‘All right, we’ll search thoroughly, and I’ll get the warrant,’ said Grice. ‘Check the tenants as soon as you can. And get this man identified.’ He stood looking down at Woolf, whose features were slack, in death, and whose eyes were only partly closed. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him about.’ He snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘It’s beginning to look as if we were right one way, anyhow – the girl knows where the Riordon stuff is. Have you questioned her about that yet?’
‘Haven’t had a chance, sir,’ Middleton said.
Grice shrugged.
He checked over everything that had been done, left Middleton in charge, and went to the Yard. It was nearly half past two, and he wouldn’t get home again that night. Prints of the photograph of the dead man were already on his desk, damp but usable. Copies were on the way to newspapers, and Records were being searched for a photograph and for fingerprints to correspond with those which had been taken from the dead man. He telephoned to the Back Room Inspector and released the story of the girl’s arrest.
Middleton came in, poker-faced, eyes heavy and tired, but his movements and voice were brisk enough.
‘Sit down,’ Grice said.
‘Thanks. I’m damned sorry about this.’
‘Can’t be helped. You’re not the only one Rollison’s shown a clean pair of heels. I wish I knew what the devil he’s up to. Let’s go over this again. He was there talking to the girl, let Rowse in, and before there could be any more discussion, the little man arrived. Had he been hiding in the flat?’
‘Yes. In a corner cupboard in the dining-room.’
‘If Rowse is right, he came out and shot the unknown, with two witnesses,’ Grice said. ‘Then he blames Rollison.’
Middleton said heavily, ‘Listen, Chief. We know that girl killed Keller. Rollison’s trying to cover for her. Rowse is crazy about her, so they’d all lie like troopers. We can take Nevett’s word as safely as theirs. There are no prints on the air pistol, so that doesn’t mean anything. There’s nothing to help us.’
Grice shrugged.
‘Which means we should have to believe that Rollison shot the unknown in cold blood.’ Middleton shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t see it happening. Can you?’
‘Not the Rollison I know,’ Grice said.
The telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver quickly, and snapped his name.
He listened. His eyes glistened, and his hand tightened on the receiver.
He barked, ‘You sure?’ He paused, listening again, then said, ‘Yes, send a call out, all patrol cars in the vicinity to go there.’ He banged the receiver down and jumped up. Middleton was already on his feet, something of the tiredness fading from his eyes.
‘We’ve identified the dead man – a Leo Woolf, of 27 Mayrick Court, Mayfair,’ Grice said. ‘Let’s get over there. Remember where we’ve seen that man before?’
‘No, I—’
‘Witness during the girl’s father’s trial. Not a case we worked on, but I once saw him in court. Reputedly wealthy, married a chorus girl a few years ago. Come on.’
XVI
WOOLF’S STUDY
The third key Rollison tried opened the middle drawer in Woolf ’s desk. Two of the side drawers remained locked. He found the keys for them, pulled each drawer open, and glanced inside. The middle drawer held a blotting-pad, pens and pencils, oddments. Another contained notepaper and envelopes; everything was very tidy.
In the first of the smaller locked drawers were an address book, several account-books, confidential papers. He put these on one side, and tried the other. In it were several manilla folders; in one of these were photographs of several people, including Marion-Liz and Harry Keller. Rollison glanced at the murdered man’s round pudge of a face, put the photograph aside and studied the others. He knew several of them. Names were written in pencil on the back – and the first name to ring a bell was Nathaniel Lane – Solicitor.
Marion-Liz’s father looked elderly, amiable, and benevolent, a grey-haired, full-faced man with tufts of hair at his temples and bushy eyebrows.
Then Reginald Rowse grinned up at him, looking more Irish in the photograph than he did in real life.
The police could draw their own conclusions from this. Rollison wanted only that knife.
He opened the last drawer. Inside were two automatics and some spare clips of ammunition, and a much smaller gun. This could be held in the palm of the hand and remain unnoticed, but could be lethal.
He stood up and looked round the room, for the safe.
One long wall, opposite the heavily curtained windows, was filled with books. The glazed shelves were built to the height of the picture-rail at either end, but went only half-way up the wall between these ends. On the top shelf of the lower section were several ornaments. The room was furnished tastefully, obviously belonging to a man who could put his hands on plenty of money.
At one end was a fireplace, easy-chairs, low tables; nothing there concealed a safe, unless it was behind a picture. That would mean a wall combination safe.
He went across to the window and pulled a curtain aside cautiously, opened a window wide, and then put the curtain back, so that onl
y a sliver of fight showed outside. He turned to the end of the room which he hadn’t examined closely. The door through which he had entered was here, and against the wall behind it, a large cabinet. Cocktails? He went across and opened the top part; yes, bottles and glasses were fitted into little partitions, a neat and attractive array, but they didn’t take up the whole of the cabinet. He tried to open the door in the bottom part; it was locked.
He used a small key from Woolf ’s bunch, and the door sagged open. The safe lay behind it. The knife, too?
There were two keyholes, one very small; and there was a long, thin key which fitted it. The safe was unfamiliar; in some makes it was necessary to use the correct key first, if the wrong one were turned it jammed the second lock. He examined the long key carefully, but there was no marking on it. He tried those keys he hadn’t yet used, until he found one that appeared to fit the second lock – the only one, and, therefore, almost certainly the correct one. He drew it out without turning it and examined it closely, but found no markings. Woolf would know which one to use first, there was no reason why there should be any indication. He went closer to the safe door itself and peered at the dull-finished steel, sometimes the locks themselves were marked.
These weren’t.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a woman.
Rollison straightened up slowly, and didn’t look round. The ‘can I help you’ seemed to ring in his ears louder than an alarm bell, but he checked the rise of panic and the temptation to feel for his gun. He saw a reflection in a picture on the wall above the cabinet, but could only see the vague outline of a woman’s head and shoulders.
‘Don’t be shy,’ she said.
She had a pleasant voice, deep, slightly husky. He expected to see beauty. He turned, slowly, and his lips curved in a smile, showing nothing of his thumping heart.
She stood quite still, dressed in a royal blue dressing-gown which was waisted and very square on the shoulders, and showed only a shallow ‘V’ at the neck. It touched the floor; the toes of red slippers poked beneath it. The skirt was full and fell in heavy folds about her.
She wasn’t young; not really young; but she was superb to look at.
Behind her, one of the tall sections of the bookshelves was open a few inches; the shelves concealed a door.
She had dark hair, with a streak of grey which started at the forehead and was swept back. Her hair fell to her shoulders in waves; not natural, but did that matter? Her complexion was lovely; she had on a little make-up.
‘Mr. Rollison, I presume,’ she said. ‘Will you have a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Then have a cigarette.’
She backed to a table, and with her left hand, groped for a cigarette from a box. She held an automatic pistol in her right hand. She took the cigarette and then a lighter from the table, flicked it into flame, and drew on the tobacco. Then she backed a little farther away and motioned him to the box. He moved across and lit a cigarette, the keys jangling in his hand.
‘Where did you get those keys?’
‘Just my luck,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that I was born under a lucky star?’
‘I’ve never had much time for astrology, and you shouldn’t have, now. Supposing I were to telephone for the police – they’d be delighted.’
‘And you would have done your civic duty.’
‘That’s right. Have you any objection?’
Rollison laughed and waved his right hand.
‘None at all, carry on.’
She didn’t move towards the telephone, which was behind her.
‘Perhaps it wouldn’t be to our mutual advantage,’ said Rollison earnestly. ‘Possibly you’ve a black past, too. You wouldn’t be Mrs. Woolf, would you?’
She smiled at that, as if she really thought it funny – an unexpected reaction from a wife hearing a slur on her husband, unless she sailed through life ready and eager to be amused at anything. The glint in her eyes wasn’t just of amusement; there was malice in it.
‘I am Mrs. Woolf,’ she said.
‘Now we know each other, what could be cosier?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, just an odd thing or two – proof that Leo has been murdering people, and all that kind of thing.’
‘And you think he would keep it in his safe?’
She made no denial, but the laughter in her eyes was touched with venom. Towards whom? She was superbly confident, and that was partly her nature, not all due to the gun in her hand. She went to a chair and sat down, but all the time the gun covered him. He believed that she would shoot as readily as Woolf had done; and probably to kill.
‘Useful things, safes,’ said Rollison. ‘The odd thing is that so many people think they are. Safe, I mean. Men have a pathetic faith in them – even clever crooks. They seem to have the notion that only their own safes are safe from burglars.’
‘Perhaps they do. What exactly do you want?’
‘The name of the girl-friend who was at Hexley on Wednesday night. Was Leo out of town?’
She didn’t answer.
‘You wouldn’t know where he is now, would you?’ asked Rollison.
He tapped the ash off his cigarette, and rested his right hand at his waist; he had only to slide his hand into his pocket to get at his gun.
‘Don’t you know?’ she asked.
He smiled, and didn’t answer.
‘Where is Leo?’ She was obviously striving to keep back anger, the smile was as much pose as anything else. ‘You must have seen him, to get his keys.’
What would she say, if she knew that he was dead?
‘Oh, I saw him,’ he said. ‘We had an interesting chat. It was a pity the girl was with us, I think he would have been more frank if he’d been alone, but—’
She spat, ‘What girl?’
‘I wouldn’t know her name. A very nice young lady, I should say, and …’
The woman’s eyes blazed with anger. She was aware of Woolf ’s affaires, was fiercely jealous. Could that be the explanation of the strange light in her eyes?
‘Where is he?’
‘Oh, still around, I expect.’
‘How did you get the keys?’
Rollison rubbed his chin and said apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I was unkind. He annoyed me, and I hit him. Look.’ He held out his left hand; the knuckles were slightly grazed, there was a smear of blood on two of them. ‘He was so surprised that he didn’t hit back, and I had no trouble taking the keys away. I left him dismayed, but not very active. True, I don’t think he’ll have much regard for me in future, I’m always making bad friends. Men especially are allergic to me.’
‘I can believe that,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe that you did all that to Leo.’
‘Oh, he’s nothing like so good as he thinks he is.’
Rollison moved forward, casually.
‘Don’t come too close,’ she warned.
For all he knew, the police had identified Woolf. The sound of police cars might come through the open window at any moment. He had only limited time; and the safe might yield exactly what he wanted. But the woman was more dangerous than the man had been.
She wasn’t in a hurry; she was likely to enjoy a cat-and-mouse game. She didn’t know that Woolf was dead and that the police might arrive at any moment. But if he were too anxious, she would guess he was on edge.
‘Oh, come,’ he protested mildly, ‘must we have guns, between friends? You offered to help – which key should be used first?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I wish I did.’
‘You know,’ murmured Rollison, ‘there are moments when I doubt if you’re as closely attached to Leo as he would like to think. Why do you wish you did?’
‘There is plenty I’d like to find in his safe.’
‘Couldn’t we strike a bargain?’
She didn’t answer.
‘After all, I could try,’ said Rollison. ‘I might choose the wrong one, and
we’d be no farther on, but if I chose the right one, we could take what we want. Full satisfaction all round, I can’t imagine we want exactly the same thing.’ He lifted the long, thin key. ‘Shall I try?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
XVII
THE SAFE
Rollison couldn’t shut the glimpse of the woman’s naked hatred out of his mind. He couldn’t understand why she should say ‘yes’. He didn’t like turning with his back to her, for she might shoot.
He smiled, as if at a life-long friend.
‘Or would you like to try? After all, it’s more your safe than mine.’
‘Open it,’ she said harshly.
She didn’t move from the arm of the chair. She was ten feet away from him, too far for him to hope to disarm her, unpleasantly close for accurate marksmanship; if she shot to kill, she could hardly miss.
He shrugged.
‘Don’t you want to come and see how it’s done?’
‘I want to see if you can do it.’
He turned slowly. He had a glimpse of her, steady and calm, gun-hand raised, the automatic now trained on his side.
He turned his back on her; and could hardly breathe.
There was no other sound.
He took three steps towards the safe, and felt as if his hair were standing on end. He was cold at the forehead and the nape of the neck, and his hands were clammy. He knelt down, slowly; it was like kneeling before the executioner’s block.
She didn’t move, and she didn’t shoot.
He used the small key, first – then glanced round. She was leaning forward, so that she could see better, but the gun remained steady. At least, she really wanted him to open the safe. But what would happen when it was open? He could see the dark pit of death yawning in front of him. If he unlocked the safe, she could take out whatever she wanted – and if she shot him, she would have every reason. It was a legal act to shoot a man who had forced a way in and was opening one’s safe.
