by John Creasey
‘My sweet, you’re more wonderful even than I knew. Turn right, will you?’
She turned right.
‘Do you know the way to Hampstead?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Good,’ said Rollison.
She trod on the accelerator, glanced at him, and yet held her peace; she was a wonderful woman.
‘Why are we going to Hampstead?’ Iris asked at last.
‘A man lives there who has something belonging to me. I hope.’
‘What is it?’
‘Must we go into details?’
‘Well, I think you owe me that,’ said Iris, and looked stormily ahead of her. An early morning cyclist turned out of a side street, and she had to swing out to avoid him. ‘The fool!’
‘This man had a knife of mine, it helped to kill Keller. It has my prints on it. So I’m not going for a pleasant chat.’
She shot him a startled glance; she was as impulsive and as freshly naive as a child, for all her courage and loyalty.
‘Do the police know?’
‘I don’t think so – yet. I’d be much happier if I could wipe the blood off it, and clear the fingerprints away.’
‘Yes, so would I,’ said Iris. ‘Richard, how on earth did you come to get mixed up with devils like these?’
‘It just happens that way.’
There was a long, straight stretch of road, and no traffic, and she took her eyes off the road in front to look at him steadily. As he stared back, he saw her lips soften and her eyes full of something not far from sympathy, and she said softly: ‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’
He would not have admitted it to another woman in the world, except perhaps Old Glory.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’ll get you to Hampstead,’ she said. ‘We shan’t be long. But – have you thought that the police might be there first?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Have you, Richard?’
‘Yes, my sweet, I’ve thought of that.’
She was doing fifty miles an hour in a thirty-mile-limit district, and from the look of her face, she would gladly have stepped up the speed to eighty or ninety.
The morning light was keen and searching by the time they reached Hampstead Heath. The Heath itself was deserted, and the freshness of the new day gave the leaves of trees and bushes a new glory. The grass, damp from the overnight rain, had a silvery sheen upon its green. The roads were dry. Two motorists passed them, and they passed several cyclists, one a policeman moving steadily, as if he would bore his way through all the criminals of London. Doubtless he was thinking that the dark hours for crime were past.
Rollison kept his face averted as Iris drove past the man.
Niel Street, near the common, was a wide thoroughfare, tree-lined, with massive houses on either side, all standing in their own grounds; and the grounds of all were bright with flowers of every colour, lawns were trim and neat. Some of the houses were old and ugly with the Victorian redness of brick and unexpectedness of turrets; many were new, and smaller.
Number 15 was one of these.
It stood back from the road, a pleasant and imposing residence, with a green-tiled roof, white walls, wide steps leading to a loggia and the front door – which was in fact at the side – facing south. Cupressus-trees spiked along the front wall, so that they could catch only glimpses of the place as they passed. A drive with a wide carriageway, near the house itself, glowed yellow in the first glint of the sun. This was new and prosperous.
Iris slackened her pace so that Rollison could see as much as possible – including the small, new car which stood in the drive. The gateway was half-way along the street, and she drove as far as the corner.
‘No police, anyhow,’ she said with relief.
‘They keep giving us time.’
‘Where do you want me to wait?’
She had pulled up at the side of the road, and was looking at him full face, eyes hopeful and eager.
He rested a hand on hers.
‘I don’t want you to wait, my sweet. I want you to go home and stay there.’
‘You’re talking out of the back of your neck!’
‘All right, then! Go to Aunt Gloria, and keep her company. She’ll be needing company, she has the oddest affection for her prodigal nephew. Tell her all’s well, so far.’
‘She wouldn’t believe me, and anyhow, I’m staying here.’
‘For the police to find, if they get here in time.’ Rollison chuckled. ‘Iris, if taking risks with you would really help, I’d take them, because you’d want me to. But that wouldn’t help. This is the end of the hunt. Either I’m to be lucky or things will really go wrong. I expect to find what I want here, and if I do, I can lift the telephone and send for the police. That’ll be that. If I don’t …’
‘You’ll need to get away somewhere, in a hurry.’
‘If I don’t, I’ll have shot my bolt. No, this isn’t because I want to get you out of danger, it’s simple fact. And it’s a job I can only do on my own.’
She didn’t answer.
‘I started it alone, and I’ll see it through alone,’ went on Rollison. ‘Don’t look obstinate, and don’t be glum. Go back and help Jolly. He knows where I am.’
She shrugged.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go. But I’ll walk to the nearest tube, and leave the car here. Will it be all right here?’
‘It’s a good thought. The police might recognise it.’
‘You may need it.’
‘All right,’ Rollison said. ‘You do as you like.’
She got out, and he followed her. No one watched as they stood face to face, the girl a few inches shorter than Rollison. In the morning light she was as wholesome and lovely as at any time of night or day. Suddenly, she took his hands and kissed him, on the cheek – and then she turned and ran; actually ran.
Rollison watched her out of sight.
Then he rasped his fingers over the stubble of his face, and walked quickly towards Number 15.
The police weren’t here; Rollison didn’t seriously think they were being cagey, and watching from under cover; but he glanced into several of the big gardens near Number 15, from which the grounds could be seen. No one lurked there. The small car, a Morris, still stood outside the front door, and now the sun glistened on its black roof and sides and scintillated from the chromium of headlamps and fittings.
Rollison opened the gate and went into the grounds.
By night, he might have been able to approach unobserved; that was impossible now, the garden was fairly new and open, the only cover was the Cupressus-trees, behind him. The drive sloped upwards. He walked briskly, making no attempt to hurry, and went towards the front door. He watched the broad bay windows, but no one moved near them, he saw nothing to suggest that he was being observed.
He reached the loggia and the front door. The floor was polished red, but sand from the drive had been washed and blown on to it by the storm, small pieces of gravel grated under his feet.
It was an ordinary Yale lock.
He took out a strip of mica.
The door opened, and a man stood there, smiling at him sardonically; a red-headed man – an older version of Reginald Rowse.
XXI
OFFER
‘Good morning,’ said Rollison pleasantly.
‘So you’ve made it,’ said Rowse. ‘I expected you.’
‘Blessed is he who gets what he expects,’ said Rollison. ‘I hope you’re expecting plenty.’ His right hand was in his pocket; so was Rowse’s. ‘May I come in?’
‘I should hate to let you go,’ said Rowse.
He was not only ten years or so older than Reginald, but he was taller and more powerful – not unlike Woolf, in a way, with a round face and a fair skin and hair which was not so decided a red as Reginald’s. His eyes were greeny-grey, quite nice eyes. He had a square chin, and a nose which was only slightly snub.
He stood aside.
Rollison
stepped in.
Men might close in on him from either side; Rowse certainly wouldn’t be alone. No one else moved in the spacious hall, and Rowse closed the door softly. He smiled with his lips compressed as Rollison glanced at several doorways, the wide staircase, and in all the corners.
‘We’ll go in here,’ said Rowse.
He waited for Rollison to go ahead, while he pointed at a room with a partly open door. Rollison went forward, casually – then kicked the door open and stepped in swiftly. He saw a man, standing in a corner, ducking below the top of a screen.
He grinned.
‘Playing hide and seek so early in the morning? What a constitution.’
‘All right, Steve, you can show yourself,’ Rowse said.
There was an edge to his voice, which was otherwise pleasant enough. Woolf had looked a rogue, Rowse didn’t.
The man called Steve straightened up, his face red with embarrassment. He was small, and he didn’t appear to have much intelligence – a dumb type who came forward and rubbed the barrel of a gun with his left hand, as if he wanted to hide it and knew that would be impossible. He had a long, sorrowful face and not much hair.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ said Rollison. ‘Where’s the lady, Rowse?’
‘Which one?’
‘Lizzie’s near double.’
Rowse shrugged.
‘You needn’t worry about her, she was paid for the job, and that’s that. She wouldn’t come forward if the police searched for a year. Don’t kid yourself.’
‘Even I can hope.’
‘You can’t hope much,’ said Rowse, and there was a heavier note in his voice, a hint of menace which might have been borrowed from Woolf. ‘Go and sit down. Steve, go and make some tea – or would you rather have coffee, Rollison?’
‘My dear chap, what hospitality! Tea. Thanks.’
‘Micky, you didn’t ought—’ began Steve.
‘I can handle Rollison,’ Rowse said, and Steve went out.
‘Micky Rowse,’ murmured Rollison. ‘I prefer it to Jim, it sounds like something out of Walt Disney.’
He watched Steve sidle out of the door, and knew that Rowse was watching him closely. He went to an easy-chair, which was wide and capacious, and sat down; he didn’t take his hand from his pocket or from his gun. He leaned forward and helped himself to a cigarette and lit it from a table-lighter.
‘Well, what’s to do?’
‘How much did you take from Woolf ’s place?’
‘Everything that matters.’
Rowse said, ‘I wish I could be sure, but I think you took plenty. If you hadn’t, the police would have been here by now. I took a chance that you’d empty the safe before you left.’
‘That puts you in my debt,’ said Rollison.
‘Where’s the stuff you took?’
‘Nicely cared for, thank you.’
‘Got it with you?’
‘Search me.’
‘I will soon,’ said Rowse. ‘Did it include an address book and a sealed envelope?’
Rollison stretched out his legs and laughed, ignoring the question.
‘Funny how things work out, isn’t it? You’ve a knife with my dabs on, and I’ve some papers which will probably send you down for ten years and might get you hanged. We ought to do a deal.’
‘And that’s why you came?’
‘Isn’t it why you expected me?’
Rowse laughed softly.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
He walked across to the window and stood with his back to it. There were faint sounds from somewhere else in the house. Rollison doubted if these two men were the only ones here; there were bound to be others. He felt relaxed, and was able to look it. This was the last battle, there would be no more running, no more probing – he’d staked everything, and he thought the odds were even. He didn’t ask for more.
Rowse said, ‘So you’ll exchange the stuff you took from Woolf ’s place for the knife.’
‘Plus.’
‘Plus what?’
‘A statement, about who killed Keller, how Liz and I were framed, when you stole my knife, what this is all about. Plus—’
‘Plus what else?’
‘Keller’s killer.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Rowse. ‘You haven’t a chance to get him. You won’t get his name, either. In fact, I don’t think you’re going to get much of anything, Mr. Ruddy Toff. Where’s Leah Woolf?’
‘Missing her already?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Comfortable, dumb, and at my disposal. Mine and my friends. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten that Leah is an important witness, too.’
‘You’d never dare let the police get her,’ said Rowse.
‘Why not?’
‘I know Leah. I could tell what she was like on the telephone. She’s as nearly crazy as anything on two legs. She could love and hate Leo in the same breath. She was always breathing fire about him, but if anyone else said a word against him or did him any harm, she would lose her head. I know Leah. She’ll blame you for his death, and she’ll swear black’s white if it’ll send you to the gallows. Don’t count Leah among your trumps, Rollison.’
Steve came in, with tea, and started to pour out.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Rowse. ‘Scram.’
Steve protested, mutely, and went out again. Rowse poured tea, pushed a cup towards Rollison, picked up his own, and went back to the window; and Rollison chuckled.
‘What’s funny?’
‘You and me and tea,’ said Rollison. ‘Things like this ought to go with raw Scotch.’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Rowse. ‘That makes sure I keep my wits about me all the time. I don’t drink and I don’t smoke, and—’
‘All the virtues!’ Rollison mocked.
‘Enough. And I know exactly what I want, and always get it. I want the papers you stole from Woolf ’s safe. I want Leah Woolf. And when I’ve got them, you can have the knife.’
Rollison sipped his tea.
‘Or else,’ said Rowse, ominously.
‘Ah, the snag.’ Rollison looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘In fact, there are several snags. I don’t trust you, Reginald’s brother.’
‘You can leave Reggie out of this.’
‘I wish I thought so. What I can’t be sure is where he comes in.’ So the Rowses were brothers; as if that mattered at all now. ‘I don’t trust you. I’d want my hands on that knife and the full story, before I passed anything over. Shall we have a look at the knife?’
Rowse touched his coat.
Rollison said, ‘Well, well, so you have it in your pocket!’
‘That’s right. And if I get trouble from you, I’ll knock you out, put it in your pocket, and call the police. They’d enjoy finding that.’
‘They’d enjoy finding the papers which name you.’
Rowse said, ‘Listen, Rollison, there are some things you have to get straight. I might be caught by the police, and get a long stretch. That’s always been on the cards, don’t make any mistake about it. But they can’t get me for murder – and they can get you. Don’t make any mistake about that, either. I’ll back my chances against yours, but I’d rather keep clear of trouble. That’s why I’ll give you a break. After I’ve got the papers and Leah, you can have the knife.’
He put his hand to his pocket.
Rollison sat, tensed, ready to spring.
Rowse called, ‘Steve!’ and immediately the man appeared in the doorway. He covered Rollison with his gun, as Rowse took out a flat cardboard box which would just fit into a large pocket. The box was tied round with string. As he handled it, he held out one hand, palm upwards. There were strips of adhesive tape over the tips of his fingers, so he would make no fresh prints.
He took the lid off the box, and then took out a knife – wrapped in tissue paper. He pulled the paper off. It was Rollison’s beyond a shadow of doubt. In the blade and also on the hilt were brown stains; and there was little doubt that the
y were of human blood: Harry Keller’s.
‘If the police get you and this, you’ve had it,’ said Rowse. ‘Just as surely as Lizzie Lane’s had it, too.’
‘I was coming to Marion-Liz,’ said Rollison, softly.
‘You can forget her.’
Rollison made no answer.
‘You can forget her,’ repeated Rowse. ‘If you get this knife back, you can call yourself lucky. Liz will hang. You’ll just withdraw your story that you were with her, leave that couple of hours in her life blank. Liz is finished, but for her Leo wouldn’t have died. I knew he was getting too reckless because of the Riordon job. Now I liked Leo. And I don’t like Liz.’
Rollison shrugged.
‘So get it straight. You might squeeze out yourself, and the knife would help you. Take a good look at it. With that as an exhibit, the Public Prosecutor could send you to the gallows. Without it, you’d squeeze out. Forget Liz – just remember where those papers are and where Leah is, and fix it so that I get them both. I want them soon. Tell me how you’re going to do it, too.’
Rollison said, ‘We’ve a lot to discuss, yet. I don’t like the terms.’
‘Don’t you?’ asked Rowse softly, and he raised his voice again. ‘Tommy!’
Another man appeared, who must have been waiting outside for this signal. He was hefty, and had a face which would have put Bill Ebbutt’s to shame. There was a vicious glint in small, dark eyes, and he had once had a nasty wound in his face, which gave him a perpetual leer. He came forward heavily – but went behind Rollison.
‘Where can I get Leah and those papers, Rollison?’ Rowse’s voice was soft again.
Rollison relaxed, and put down his empty cup.
‘Okay, Tommy,’ said Rowse.
A blow on the side of the head made Rollison’s ears ring. Another, on the other side, seemed to split his head in two. Then great hands fastened round his neck and began to choke him. There wasn’t a thing he could do. The pressure of those powerful fingers was like death itself. Rollison felt his head whirling, and the room went dark. There was a tight band round his chest, he heaved in the terrible effort to breathe, but couldn’t draw a breath. The darkness became blackness, and he seemed to lose the power of thought.
The pressure relaxed.
