by John Creasey
‘If Leo had been caught, it would have been all up with us all. Maybe Nevett realised that, and he didn’t have any love for Leo. Maybe it was the best way out for all of us, as Leo was losing his grip. Get those papers out of the safe, that’s all. Nevett won’t squeal, you know that. He may be able to switch this on to Rollison, may get clear. But open that door as soon as Sammy Gilbert comes.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right,’ and hung up.
There was plenty of time; at least, sufficient time. He could even give Sammy Gilbert a welcome.
He was within two yards of her when she moved round.
All colour had been drained from her face, the only colour left was in her eyes, and they blazed like blue flames. The rest of her was dead, but her eyes lived. It was as if she had been to hell and had come back, knowing what hell was like.
Rollison fought against the fascination of the dead face with the living eyes.
He didn’t speak.
She moved her right hand to her throat and clutched it.
She opened her mouth wider.
‘He’s—dead,’ she said, and the words were like a sigh from a heart that was smashed. ‘Leo is dead.’
Rollison forced the unseen hand of paralysis away from him, moistened his lips, and then said:
‘Well? Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘Wanted. You don’t understand, he’s dead.’
It didn’t make sense; but he could see the truth, showing clearly now. She had both hate and love for Leo Woolf, and of them, love was stronger. The passion of her emotion explained why he could do what he wanted with her, humiliate and cheat and be unfaithful, and yet be sure that she would do whatever he wanted, and would always be waiting. Rollison knew that as surely as he was standing there. There were times when hatred spilled out, when she wanted to hurt; times almost of madness.
She had talked of killing Woolf.
She had felt, at that moment, that she wanted him dead; she had behaved as she might have done in the middle of a stormy quarrel, flinging hateful, bitter words at him, meaning them in the heat of rage.
But now he was dead, it was as if part of herself had died.
Rollison said gently, ‘Leah, listen to me. This won’t—’
She raised her hands.
‘You did it. You caught him, robbed him, made him helpless, so you did it. You killed him as surely as if you’d fired at him. You. I’ll see you hang for it, I’ll see you hang.’
XIX
SAMMY
‘All right, my lovely,’ said Rollison, and moved towards her. She didn’t back away. ‘You’ll see me hanged.’
‘You killed him, you—’
He struck her beneath the chin, a sharp jab which put her out; the kindest and the quickest way. He supported her as she fell, and carried her to the couch. Then he swung round to the telephone, and dialled the number of the Lumley Street flat.
‘Hallo, who’s that?’ greeted Iris Cartwright.
‘Your most devoted admirer, who is wondering why the blazes you—’
‘Richard, be quiet! I slipped out the back way and managed to speak to Lady Gloria again. I’ve a big car, I hired it under a false name. It’s parked in a mews near Lumley Street.’
‘Iris, you’re perfect. Will you bring the car to Mayrick Court, Mayfair, very quickly? It had better wait in the side street nearby – Peel Street. Near the corner of Williton Street.’
‘I’ll come right away,’ Iris promised.
There was Leah Woolf to worry about, and the unknown man named Jim. There would be no reasoning with the woman and little hope of persuasion. He went and examined her. She would be unconscious for five minutes or more, but not long enough. He tied her wrists again, and pushed her own small handkerchief into her mouth, to make a gag. He turned away quickly, picked up the sealed envelope and put it in his pocket. The flat bell rang.
‘Hallo, Sam,’ he said softly.
The bookcase door was closed, and the doors to the hall were locked, so there wasn’t much that the maid could do about it if she heard the bell. He went into the hall, briskly, as the bell rang again. He opened the door, and a small man whom he had occasionally seen in the East End, and who certainly knew him, stood on the threshold.
He moved forward. ‘I’ve bin told to—’
‘Welcome, Sam,’ said Rollison warmly.
He gripped the man’s shoulder and drew him in, closed the door quietly, and beamed down at him. Sammy Gilbert, five feet four in his socks, was a thin wraith of a man, a brilliant cat-burglar, and an expert safe-breaker. He stared up from a monkey-like face and a pair of incredulous brown eyes.
‘The—the Torf!’ he gasped.
‘That’s right, Sammy. Come here to do a job for a friend, haven’t you?’
Sammy goggled.
‘And don’t get any foolish notion that because there’s a call out for me, you can get away with anything,’ said Rollison. ‘Who sent you?’
Sammy gulped.
‘I dunno ‘is name, ‘e—’
‘Sammy,’ said Rollison reprovingly. He gripped the little man’s scraggy neck; and pressed. Sammy flinched. ‘Remember, you can get yourself a lot of trouble. Think back to the third of June, and your night out and the Beesley job.’
‘I never! I never did that, I—’
‘You did, Sammy, and all your friends know it, so do a lot of mine. I haven’t squealed on anyone yet, and in your way you’re a pleasant little man. Too nice to work for this job. Who sent you tonight?’
Sammy gave up without a real fight.
‘Jim Rowse,’ he said.
The surname hit Rollison like a physical blow; Jim Rowse. He had a mental picture of freckle-faced Reginald of the wild temper. It faded quickly, but not before Sammy had noticed something amiss, and began to protest:
‘That’s ‘oo it was, I swear—’
‘And I believe you, Sammy.’ Rollison took the black address book from his pocket, and skimmed the pages. James R. Rowse was entered as living at 15 Niel Street, Hampstead; and had a telephone number. ‘Yes, I believe you. How long have you worked for him?’
‘It’s the first job, ‘e said it was a pushover, just open a can for a lady.’
‘Someone else did it for her. Sammy, how long do you think you’d get for the Beesley job?’
Sammy gulped.
‘Now, Mr. Ar, you wouldn’t—’
‘I have to save my neck, Sammy. Remember it. We’re going to take the lady out for a walk. A car will be round the corner in a few minutes, and when we get her inside, you can go. Clean as a whistle, without a stain on your character, and I’ll forget all about the third of June.’
Sammy said, ‘You never croaked ‘er!’
He looked dumbfounded.
‘Not yet, Sammy.’
Rollison led the way into the study. Leah Woolf ’s eyes were open, but she didn’t try to move. Rollison glanced at his watch. A car sounded not far off, and stopped nearby; Iris had been quick. It was half past two; there was no sign of the police.
At Scotland Yard a man was saying into a transmitter:
‘Calling all cars in AZ Division. Go to Williton Street.
Calling all cars in AZ Division. Go to …’
‘There’s a night porter, I slipped ‘im,’ Sammy said hoarsely.
‘You can deal with one night porter, Sammy, can’t you?’
‘Mr. Ar, you’re wanted on a murder rap. If I get caught ‘elpin’ yer …’
‘I’ll forget the third of June and tell the simple truth, Sammy – that you were forced into it tonight. At the point of a gun, my son.’ He flipped his gun out of his pocket and tossed it into the air. ‘See?’
Sammy gulped again.
‘Okay.’
He went out.
Rollison lifted the woman from her chair and hoisted her over his shoulder; she was heavy, it wouldn’t be easy to get her down the stairs; the lift would help. He carried her into the hall, and she didn’t protest, didn
’t kick or struggle. By the time he reached the lift, he was breathing hard. He rested her against the wall and pressed the button, the lift clicked into action at once. As it came up, he opened the doors and helped the woman in.
She made no effort to struggle.
The lift whined down, and stopped.
Rollison opened the doors, and saw Sammy Gilbert at the front door. Rollison hoisted the woman up again, and she muttered something; the handkerchief prevented him from hearing it, but he thought he caught the word ‘walk’.
He hurried to the front door.
Sammy said, ‘There’s a car.’
Headlights were shining from some way off, and glistened on windows. Another car came from a different direction, and the engines of both had an ominous high-pitched whine.
‘The cops!’
Rollison said, ‘All right, get to the corner.’
He started to run; he was almost beaten, but managed just a jogging step; Leah Woolf bounced up and down on his shoulder. His side hurt. The car was drawing rapidly nearer, but not from the corner where his own car should be. He gritted his teeth and ran on. He turned the corner as the car pulled up behind him, and a man shouted.
Another car was coming along this street, headlights blazing.
Iris sat at the wheel of a big limousine. Sammy had the door open, and had his hands raised, almost in an attitude of prayer. Rollison bundled Leah Woolf into the back, climbed in after her, and saw Sammy get in next to the girl. The nearer car was coming round the corner now, the other was only fifty yards away.
She switched on her headlights and seemed to drive straight at the approaching car. Sammy squealed. Leah Woolf sat rigid, staring at the oncoming headlights.
Iris swung the wheel.
She probably didn’t know herself how she managed it, but she swerved on to the pavement between lamp-posts and reached the road beyond the police car – and then her foot went down hard. The engine roared. There was a crash behind them. Rollison looked out of the window, and saw two cars, one broadside across the road.
‘You get along, I’ll take the car away,’ Iris said.
She had stopped fifty yards away from Lumley Street. Sammy was next to her.
‘I’m coming wiv you!’
‘Dump him somewhere,’ RoUison said. ‘Thanks, Sammy.’
‘Can I do anything else?’ asked Iris.
‘Be near Bottle Mews, for a bit, will you? You can park a car there all night, and watch from a doorway. Wait as long as you feel you can.’ He spoke very quietly.
‘All right,’ she said. He smiled at her in the light of a street-lamp, and pulled Leah Woolf towards him. She came without a protest, and when he helped her to stand up, she started to walk. He hurried, with an arm on hers, into Lumley Street. He unlocked the front door and led her up. He reached his own flat, and took out his keys – and the door opened.
Jolly said, ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Hallo, Jolly,’ said Rollison. ‘We’ve a guest. Show Mrs. Woolf to the rest-room, will you? Remember how rattle-snakes behave, too.’
‘Good evening, madam,’ said Jolly. His expression didn’t change when he saw her bound wrists and the handkerchief poking from her lips. He took her arm, and she went with him obediently. He took her into the bedroom, and closed the door.
He was in there with her for three or four minutes.
Rollison caught a glimpse of his own face in an over-mantel mirror. He hadn’t any colour. He was still rushing away from patrol cars. He forced a laugh, went to the corner table and poured himself a stiff whisky. Then he lit a cigarette and went back to the mantelpiece, standing with his back to it. A dozen pictures flitted across the mirror of his mind. He pushed them away, took off his coat and pulled up his shirt and singlet. Both were bloodstained.
Jolly came in as he was peering at the patch of blood.
‘Straighten up, sir, will you?’ Jolly looked, and dabbed with a handkerchief; the cut was perhaps a quarter of an inch deep.
‘I brought some first-aid equipment,’ Jolly said. ‘We’ll soon have that patched up, and you can rest.’
He took ten minutes over the patching up; when he had finished the wound wasn’t painful at all, and was well plastered and padded.
‘Thanks. What have you done with the rattlesnake?’ Rollison asked.
‘I have made her rather more comfortable, sir, but replaced the handkerchief with a small roll of cotton-wool.’
Jolly glanced down at his hand, reflectively; and Rollison saw blood.
‘So she bit.’
‘A mere trifle, sir.’
‘Sorry. Jolly, ought you to be here?’
‘I can imagine nowhere else I should be, sir.’
‘No police behind you?’
‘I was able to evade them, sir, and made quite sure before I came here.’
‘Good. I have not had a nice time. I have been murdering more people. With air-guns and things. You’ll have to take me in hand, Jolly.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. May I be permitted to say that you look really tired?’
‘I feel like a fox at the end of the third day’s hunt.’
Jolly moved towards him, brown eyes searching, lined face anxious: They stood looking at each other for several seconds, before Jolly relaxed, and moved back – and forced a smile.
‘You must be very tired, sir, or you wouldn’t take a gloomy view.’
‘Call it reaction. I’m not tired. I have to see a Mr. James Rowse tonight. He lives at 15 Niel Street, Hampstead, and he was awake less than an hour ago. He’ll almost certainly be awake now. He was in the confidence of Mr. Leo Woolf. Mr. Woolf had a knife – our knife, Jolly – with our fingerprints on, if you see what I mean. Our knife cut Mr. Keller’s throat as Miss Lane’s spanner cracked his skull.’
‘Do we know Mr. Woolf, sir?’
Rollison finished his whisky, and stubbed out his cigarette.
‘I feel almost new again. Don’t go on holiday for so long next time. Yes, we know him. He framed Marion-Liz and framed me. He was certainly after the Riordon Collection. Alive, I think he might have been a useful witness. I’d have taken a chance and handed him over to Grice. But he wouldn’t stay alive.’
‘I see,’ said Jolly, mildly.
‘I brought his wife here, instead. She knows a lot, not everything. She also works with our Mr. James Rowse, who may or may not be a brother of Reginald. I wonder if Reginald lives at Hampstead.’
‘No, sir, in Earls Court. For the night, he has accommodation at Cannon Row, after assaulting Mr. Grice.’
‘Oh. Well, look after Mrs. Woolf, won’t you? Yes, I know I’d handle it better if I waited until morning, but I’d hate to try to get that knife back from Cannon Row or Brixton Jail. Oh, if I shouldn’t come back, and you have to try to bail me out, this might come in handy.’ He gave Jolly the address book and the envelope. ‘Go through the list of women, and find out which of them might be taken for Marion-Elizabeth Lane by people who don’t know her well.’
Jolly looked his agony.
‘Having anyone else here?’ Rollison asked.
‘Skinner will be back in a few minutes, sir.’
‘Good.’
Rollison nodded, smiled, and went out.
XX
DAWN
It was four o’clock.
The eastern sky was faintly light. London’s sparrows, starlings, and pigeons were stirring noisily. The stars were fading, even in the west and above his head. The air was clear and invigorating, with a promise of a fine, cool day to come; the thunder had broken the pressure.
Rollison walked quickly towards Oxford Street, choosing narrow alleys where he could, hardly troubled by the pain at his waist.
He had Leah Woolf, on the credit side. What of the debit?
The knife might be anywhere; might possibly have been in the flat above Marion-Liz. That wasn’t likely, Jim Rowse probably had it.
Rowse—
He refused to be side-tracked; he was exami
ning the debit balance, and it was much too heavy. He needn’t weigh up Marion-Liz’s side again, he had plenty to think of with his own. The attack on Grice; the attack on the policeman; the burglaries.
There remained the knife; above everything, his knife, so neatly stolen from Devon and used with such great cunning. Of course it had his prints on it; and of course the frame-up had been worked to include him – a perfect job.
Woolf ’s?
Or Jim Rowse’s?
Possibly even Nevett’s; the man had a quick mind, as he’d proved that night. His story that Rollison shot Woolf wouldn’t stand up against Reginald Rowse’s evidence and the girl’s. Well, it shouldn’t; but the girl’s evidence might mean little when prosecuting counsel had finished with her, and Reginald Rowse might be persuaded to withdraw his statement if the other Rowse had any influence with him. Were they brothers?
He turned a corner.
Two policemen, constable and sergeant, were conferring a little way along. He felt their gaze on him as he hurried past the end of the street. He heard a car, the engine snorting, but didn’t glance round.
It muffled the sound of policemen’s feet; he couldn’t judge whether he was being followed. He wanted to run to the nearest side street, and wouldn’t let himself. He wanted to glance round, as the car snorted nearer, but forced himself to look straight ahead. He thought he heard a new sound; as of brakes going on sharply. Tyres screeched – not loudly, but with noise enough to send his nerves screaming, to make him clench his hands and grit his teeth.
A red-nosed car edged past him, colour bright even in the faint dawn light, and a girl whispered:
‘Richard!’
He turned, stung. Iris sat at the wheel of her little two-seater, with the door beside her open, eagerness in her eyes. He could have kissed her. He sprang into the car, and the door slammed. He looked round, and there was no sign of the two policemen. He squeezed her hand.
‘Don’t, while I’m driving.’
He laughed; he couldn’t stop laughing.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to you,’ said Iris impatiently, ‘but I don’t think it’s a laughing matter. I’m taking big risks to help you. I was waiting at the Mews, and thought I recognised you.’
