by John Creasey
“And,” continued Rollison, “I am going to tell them that David is missing.”
“You are not!” cried Pomeroy.
It was the first time he had taken part in the conversation, and he made Renfrew start. The doctor’s dark, sleek hair and rather aquiline face gave him quite a presence, but the way he looked then made him seem very young. He was nearly as tall as Rollison, and he dwarfed Pomeroy, who came strutting forward and put a hand on Hilda’s arm.
“Aren’t we?” murmered Rollison.
“If you consider it your duty to inform the police of this dastardly attack on Gwendoline, then I am in full agreement,” said Pomeroy, “but to acquaint them of the fact that David is missing will be to heap coals upon the fire of rumour now sweeping through the City. Such an action would be a betrayal of friendship, would perhaps do incalculable harm to a great and good man. I have no doubt that there are excellent reasons for David’s protracted absence, and I insist that no such report is made to the police.”
He eyed Rollison, not with anger but with indignation, and his grip on Hilda’s arm tightened. It was easy to see how simple it had been for him to influence the others earlier.
“Mr. Pomeroy, I do not like your advice,” Rollison said mildly.
“Like it or not, as you wish, sir, but it is advice which takes into consideration the reputation of a very fine character and, if that were not enough, it affects the happiness and the domestic joy of a woman whom I admire and esteem so much that I will exert myself in every way, to the very limit of my endurance, to prevent you from committing this cardinal tactical error. I do not know you, sir. I believe that we have some cause to be grateful for your prompt action, when Gwendoline was injured, but I do not see that as justification for such an attitude as you are now adopting. Have you no loyalty towards Hilda?”
“So much that I am advising her for her own good.” He looked at Renfrew. “What do you think?”
“I had no idea that Mr. Barrington-Ley was missing,” said Renfrew, worriedly, “but if no one knows where he is, then it would be wise to tell the police.”
“That is intolerable presumption, Doctor,” said Pomeroy coldly. “I forfeit this story to be placed before the police, to allow it to be handed out to the Press, that it may be blazoned across the headlines of the daily newspapers in the morning, to let it create a panic selling on the Stock Exchange, to undermine the good name and the security of the many companies in which my dear friend David has an interest. Understand, sir—I forbid it!”
Rollison let him finish, then stepped towards Hilda, removed Pomeroy’s hand, drew Hilda towards him, and said:
“Hilda, they tried to kill Gwendoline. They have probably kidnapped David. He is, at this moment, in acute danger. I can’t help to save him unless the police know. Do you understand me—David is in acute danger.”
“I declare” began Pomeroy.
“Be quiet!” snapped Rollison.
The man opened his mouth and closed it again, and then backed away. Hilda stared aghast, into Rollison’s eyes, and then went slowly across the room towards the telephone. She picked up the receiver.
“What is the number?” she asked.
“Whitehall 1212,” said Rollison.
He watched Pomeroy closely. The man was angry and disappointed, and Rollison thought that he was afraid, but he preserved a dignified silence. Rollison went to Hilda’s side, told her to ask for Grice and, when she had spoken to the Superintendent, gave him a summary of what had happened, to make sure that Hilda and the others knew that it would be useless to go back on their word. He rang off, and said:
“The police will be here within twenty minutes. Sit down and rest, Hilda. Gwendoline is all right, isn’t she?”
“She will be,” said Renfrew. “It isn’t serious.”
“Good!” said Rollison, leading Hilda to a chair. “Can you stay here until the police arrive, Renfrew?”
“I intend to do so,” said Renfrew.
“Then I needn’t stay,” said Rollison. “Will you see that the knife is left, untouched, on the piano?”
He went out, opening the front door himself. The footman who had shown such veiled insolence and who had affected to be stupefied instead of stopping the little man with the knife, was nowhere to be seen. As Rollison sauntered along the road, the chimes of a nearby clock struck midnight. He frowned at the lateness of the hour, but he did not go far, walking back towards Barrington House on the opposite side of the road. There was a street lamp near the front gate, and he expected to see Pomeroy come out.
When Grice arrived, the clock was striking the quarter, Rollison walked away; Pomeroy had either used a side entrance or was still inside the house.
Jolly was standing by the radiogram in a corner of the big room at the flat, and Lady Lost was leaning back in an easy chair with her eyes closed and a faint smile at her lips. Rollison entered the room, and Jolly bowed slightly and motioned to the radiogram. Rollison nodded. When the last record was played, a bright and lively waltz by Johann Strauss, Jolly stopped the disc and inquired:
“Is there anything you require, sir?”
“Let’s have some coffee,” said Rollison.
“Very good, sir.” Jolly went out and Rollison stood looking at Lady Lost. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him. The smile had died, and something of the hurt she had suffered at Barrington House showed on her face; it was as if she were keeping her eyes half-closed to prevent him from seeing the hurt in them.
He could not understand the turmoil in his mind.
This woman might be a fraud; Gwendoline might be right; but he desired above all else to prove that Lady Lost was innocent of all chicanery; he wanted to believe her memory gone, and longed to restore it.
At last she broke the silence.
“Please do not talk of what happened. It is—forgotten.”
“Is it?” asked Rollison, slowly.
“Yes, and it does not matter. The girl dislikes me. Once she came to see me at the hospital, and then it was clear—she dislikes and distrusts me, and who can be blamed for talking as she did of a person whom one does not trust?”
“There’s something in that,” said Rollison. He offered cigarettes, but she refused. He lit one, slowly. “She says that you know her father, and that you saw him several times before you appeared at Barrington House.”
The woman sat up, her eyes ablaze.
“Then where is he? Where is he? If he saw me then he can name me!”
“He has gone away,” said Rollison, gently.
“To where? How long must I wait?”
“No one knows where,” said Rollison.
She looked acutely disappointed; he could not bring himself to believe it was feigned. She stared at him with her eyes wide open and her lips parted.
“Has he—been hurt?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Rollison.
“You would tell me if that were so,” she said.
“Yes. Listen to me. Bar-ring-ton-Ley.” He uttered each syllable carefully. “Had you heard it before you went to their home?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I just do not know.”
He smiled.
“I shouldn’t have worried you with that, just now.”
Jolly came in with the coffee and some biscuits.
“Pour out, Jolly, please,” said Rollison, and stepped towards the radiogram. Four records were spread out on top—the National Anthems of Yugo-Slavia, Greece, Rumania and Bulgaria. The coffee in that tiny pot was of a kind popular in the Balkans and the Middle East.
“Please, I do not like coffee,” said the lady.
“Try this,” said Rollison, “just to please me.”
At the first sip, her expression altered; she looked almost startled, and she stared at the cup, then at Rollison, while Jolly stood hopefully by the door, and Rollison, without turning his head, put the needle in position and switched on the radiogram. The first strains of the Yugo-Slav National Anthem ca
me softly from the record, while the visitor sipped the coffee again and said:
“This is remarkable! It is”
She stopped abruptly.
The tune was clearer now, after the opening bars. Played in slow time by a massed band, the volume swelled and filled the room—but Rollison was not listening. He was oblivious of everything but Lady Lost, who was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes shining, the cup and saucer trembling in her hand. She did not speak, but she put the coffee down and rose slowly to her feet, moving towards him as if in a dream.
She reached his side, and they stood together while the music came like a magic which had touched some hidden chord and brought to her eyes ineffable delight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MEMORY AT BAY
THE anthem ended
The Lady of Lost Memory stood looking at Rollison. Rollison switched off, and silence fell.
The radiance in her eyes lasted for a long time, and then began to fade, so slowly that at first he thought it was a trick of the light. He had never wanted anything more deeply than to hear her say that she could remember.
The radiance became a glow, and in her eyes there was a tinge of anxiety. The smile also faded, and abruptly she turned away.
She said: “That is my National Anthem, I am a Serb. I can recall incidents of my childhood, little, inconsequential incidents; they came to me as I stood there and I have them with me now—but that is all.”
“It’s a beginning,” said Rollison, forcing himself to be brisk. He looked at the records and sorted several out, then motioned to Jolly to attend to the radiogram while he stepped out to the woman’s side, smiling as if they had cause to congratulate each other. “And a good beginning,” he said. “Sit down and listen for a while.”
He had selected Serbian tunes. They followed one upon another, bringing into the flat an atmosphere of rugged land and gypsy music, the plucking of strings and the thin tone of flutes, all with a quality of its own, whether gay or sad.
All the time Rollison watched her, but she was sitting with her eyes closed and her face quite expressionless. When all were finished, Rollison waited hopefully. Jolly began to pack up the records, but he also was watching Lady Lost. She looked as if she had fallen asleep, but when Rollison stirred she opened her eyes, smiled, and said:
“I am very tired.”
“And you must get to bed!” said Rollison, promptly. “The maid will get you anything you want.”
“Whatever I remember,” said the lady, “I shall not forget you, Mr. Rollison! Good-night.” She held out her hand, and Rollison pressed it, then she turned away towards the spare room, and Jolly stood waiting.
“No Watson to my Holmes to-night,” said Rollison, “Holmes was never as empty-headed as I am now.”
“You are tired, sir,” murmured Jolly. “You have succeeded in touching familiar chords, sir, which no one else contrived.”
Rollison smiled. “They didn’t have the opportunity,” he said. “There are limits to what one can do in a nursing home.”
“I question very much whether the people at the nursing home did all they could to help to restore madame’s memory.”
“They were under medical supervision,” Rollison reminded him.
“You will remember, sir,” said Jolly, “that Dr. Renfrew is the family physician of the Barrington-Leys.”
“And Dr. Cray is a hard-bitten police-surgeon,” said Rollison.
“Of course, sir. We do not know, however, what instructions Dr. Cray gave to the matron, and we don’t know whether they were carried out. You will forgive me for saying so, sir, but anyone who wished to revive a lost memory might attempt to do so with music—it is, I believe, an elementary process in the practice of a psychologist. Why has it not been tried?”
“She’s been ill.” Rollison said. Out of talks with Jolly much that was obscure often came to light.
“Our inquiries at the nursing home elicited the information that Lady Lost was still suffering from the effects of the poison,” said Jolly, “but she came straight from there to here and we cannot say that she is in poor health at the moment. Obviously she made an excellent recovery, but we were not given that impression when we last inquired, four days ago.”
“No, we weren’t,” agreed Rollison.
“If we were to find out what instructions Dr. Cray gave, we could then find out from the lady whether they were carried out,” said Jolly.
“It’ll be my first job in the morning,” said Rollison.
“I am glad that the suggestion finds favour, sir,” said Jolly.
“There are one of two other matters of which you have doubtless thought. If we were to take the coat and the dress to a furrier and dressmaker, we might learn more.”
“I had made a note of that one,” said Rollison, “but Grice has probably tried it.”
“I doubt it, sir. There were no name tags or maker’s tags, and I think it likely that the police will have been satisfied with that, especially since the lingerie was of American manufacture. That is another interesting point, sir; I think we might make inquiries in America. A photograph would reach there in a very short time if sent by air, and your friends in New York would undoubtedly be only too glad to help.”
“You’re getting better, better and better,” said Rollison.
“Thank you,” murmured Jolly. “Then there is yet another matter, one which you can hardly be expected to have discovered, sir. In the last few weeks I have taken the liberty of making certain inquiries, and while none of them appear to have any great importance, there is a factor which I am sure will interest you. I made the acquaintance of the butler at Barrington House, and several others of the staff. Two things emerged, sir. First, that Farrow the footman whom we saw to-night was engaged only recently with the approval of the plump Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Was he, by George!”
“He was, sir, and the staff dislike him very much indeed,” said Jolly. “In fact they have the impression that Farrow was engaged by Mrs. Barrington-Ley because Mr. Pomeroy—er —requested it.”
“Or ordered it,” said Rollison.
Jolly smiled. “The butler has a very neat turn of phrase, sir. The subject of the footman was not discussed until last evening. The other matter I have known for some time, but I did not at that juncture see what useful purpose would be served by advising you.”
“Out with it,” urged Rollison.
“The butler believes that Dr. Renfrew has an understanding with Miss Gwendoline. In fact he is a friend of the family, which doubtless explains why so youthful a doctor is employed. I have tried to get details as to Dr. Renfrew’s reputation, and I must say that in the profession he has the reputation of being a brilliant young doctor, and he is very well-liked by the staff at Barrington House.”
“I see,” said Rollison, a trifle heavily. “I’ll have a shot at Renfrew, too. Farrow seemed reluctant to send for him I remember—that’s worth keeping in mind.” He stifled a yawn. “I think we’ll get to bed. Where have you put the maid?”
“In my room, sir,” said Jolly, getting up at once.
“And what about you?”
“I shall put two chairs together in the hall, and be perfectly comfortable, I assure you.”
“I see, said Rollison. “You’re a good chap, Jolly.”
He was getting into bed when the telephone rang.
He had an extension on a bedside table, and settled himself on the pillows before he answered. He saw Jolly’s shadow near the door.
“Hallo,” he said.
“Rolly,” said Grice, and Rollison sat up. “I’m sorry it’s so late,” went on Grice, “but there are one of two things I must know now.”
“Fire away,” said Rollison.
“What do you make of the footman at Barrington House?”
“Precious little, except that I wouldn’t trust him an inch,” said Rollison. “He could have caught the little man with the knife.”
“I see,” said Grice. “It doe
sn’t much matter about that— we’ve caught the little man.”
“ What? ” exclaimed Rollison, and Grice laughed in triumph.
“I thought that would shake you. There was a man answering your description whom we knew lived in London and who has been known to use a knife, so we pulled him in and he talked.”
“This is progress!” exclaimed Rollison. “Has he talked much?”
“He says that he was hired to kill Gwendoline Barrington-Ley, but he can’t or won’t give us the name or description of the man who hired him. The order seems to have passed thorough several channels. You know how these things work.”
“East End channels?” demanded Rollison.
“Yes.”
“Well, well.” said Rollison, “I’ll slip down there in the morning—that’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”
“It might be helpful.” said Grice. “As for the footman—one of my men thinks he has seen him before. We’ve got his prints and they’re not in the records, so he hasn’t passed through our hands. You haven’t seem him before, have you?”
“No,” said Rollison.
“We’ll have to do what we can,” said Grice, and broke off, making a curious noise into the telephone. “Sorry,” he apologized, “that was a yawn. Have you learned anything from the lady?”
“She is a Serb,” said Rollison. “I thought she was going to regain her memory to-night, but it faded out again.”
“H’m, yes,” said Grice sceptically.
“Now what’s the matter?” demanded Rollison, sharply.
“Has she ever lost it?” asked Grice.
“What makes you think she might be foxing?” demanded Rollison, stretching his hand out for his cigarette case. As he fumbled with it, Jolly came into the room, took out a cigarette, lit it in a holder, and handed it to Rollison.
“Cray doubts very much whether her mind’s as blank as she says it is,” said Grice. “He told the matron to try her out with music, and we had a shot at Yugo-Slav national music as well as other from the Balkans. Reaction, nil. There isn’t much doubt that you’re right, and she’s a Serb—I had an expert have a look at her, quite early, and he said Serb or anyway Slav without any doubt. There are also other indications.”
