by John Creasey
“When did the row begin?” he asked.
“Oh, about one o’clock,” said Henderson.
“After Miss O’Rourke’s visit?”
“Very soon after.”
“Who was the other party to the quarrel?”
“A woman named Babette—Babette Smith, according to her membership card, but I wouldn’t like to swear to the ‘Smith’.” Henderson looked at Rollison thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, Babette went to Whittering’s table just after Miss O’Rourke left.”
“And they promptly quarrelled?”
“They whispered together for a few minutes, and then the row started,” said Henderson. “I don’t know what it was about, Mr. Rollison.”
“Possibly about Miss O’Rourke’s visit,” said Rollison.
“It might have been.”
“I’m not asking you to commit yourself,” smiled Rollison. “Is Babette here now?”
“No, she left soon after Whittering.”
“With a heart full of forgiveness, perhaps,” suggested Rollison. “I know this is against all the rules, but you can do me a service. What is Whittering’s address?”
“He lives just round the corner from here, in Albany Mews,” said Henderson. “I’m not quite sure of the number, but I’ll find out for you. Are you leaving now?”
“I think I’d better,” said Rollison.
Ten minutes later he entered the narrow hall of 11 Albany Mews.
The cul-de-sac had a cobbled roadway but no pavement, and Rollison knew that there were several garages converted out of what had once been the stables of the wealthy, one or two lesser clubs and many small furnished flats. By day it presented a drab yet feverish appearance, for the garages were always busy and the cobbles were thronged with cleaners going to and from their work. Now it was dark, without any light except a narrow streak from a first-floor window. The inside of Number 11 was lit by a single bulb hanging at the top of the staircase, and he shone his torch on the board which gave the names and flat numbers of the tenants.
“Flat 7—S. Whittering,” he read. “It would be on the top floor!”
The stone steps echoed as he walked up, the torch-light bright in front of him. He went cautiously, hearing no sound and seeing only the dust and cobwebs on the iron rail about the staircase and the closed doors. He reached the top landing, and saw Whittering’s flat on the left, a brass ‘7’ was screwed into the top of the door, which was shut.
He looked for a bell, but there was not one there. He rattled the letter-box, but there was no answer, so he grew bolder and rapped on the door with his knuckles, but only silence and the echoes of his knocking answered him.
Chapter Two
The Bald-Headed Man
It was half-past three, in the small hours, and there was nothing surprising in the silence; the reasonable explanation was that Whittering had fallen into a drunken stupor. Yet Rollison was uneasy; everything Henderson had told him made it seem more likely that Sheila had good reason for her anxiety.
He smiled faintly as he took out a large pen-knife. Attached to one end was a slender skeleton key, in the manipulation of which he was no tyro. He shone the torch on the key-hole, inserted the key, and switched off the torch. He worked quickly, but the lock was troublesome and it was five minutes before he heard the click as it went back. He pushed the door open gently, and stepped inside.
There was a tiny square which served as a hall. Three doors led from it, one on either side and one immediately in front of him. From that on the left came a streak of light; the door fitted badly at the foot. Now that he was inside, he behaved with even greater caution, closing the front door behind him before he stepped softly to that from which the light was coming. He tried the handle; the door was unlocked, and as it opened a brighter light flooded the tiny hall.
There was no sound.
He pushed the door open wider and put his head inside the room. It was a bedroom, and on the bed – not in it – lay a bald-headed man in evening-dress. Cracked patent leather shoes rested on the pillow and the maroon-coloured bedspread, one limp arm hung over the side, thin fingers touched the floor. The bald head rested on the foot-panel, and the wood bit deeply into the thin neck; it must have been extremely uncomfortable.
Rollison stepped slowly forward until he could look down at the bald-headed man’s face. It was bent forward, and his chin touched his starch shirt-front. The face was pale, the lips closed and pursed, the eyes beneath a wrinkled forehead were closed. There was nothing at all to suggest that the man was anything more than in a drunken stupor, except the fact that if he were breathing at all, it was very softly. Rollison bent down, raised the limp arm, and felt the pulse. After a few seconds, he folded the man’s arms across his chest, as if the dead could feel discomfort, and looked about the room for a telephone. He saw a glass, on which were fingerprints, and which smelt of whisky, but he did not touch it.
Detective Sergeant Hill of New Scotland Yard was an eager, efficient and somewhat self-opinionated officer, tall and lean and cleanshaven. He had a fair complexion and looked as if he scrubbed himself at every opportunity and shaved three times a day, to make his skin so shiny. With him was a plainclothes detective officer and a uniformed man, and Det. Sergeant Hill delivered himself of his opinions in a way which he hoped impressed the others. The plainclothes man was not so successful as the sergeant, and was ten years older.
“What I say,” said Hill, “is that no man, whether he’s a Right Honourable or whatever he is, and even if he does call himself the Toff, should break into a flat the way Rollison obviously broke into this one. He didn’t know that someone had been poisoned. It’s burglary, and that’s the only word for it.”
The uniformed constable nodded, ponderously.
“It isn’t ‘Right Honourable’,” said the plainclothes man, “it’s ‘the Honourable Richard Rollison’. And he doesn’t call himself the Toff, other people call him that.”
“You seem to know all about him, Webber,” said Hill, tartly.
“I’ve worked with him and against him,” said Webber.
“Was it or was it not burglary?” demanded Hill.
“Did he or did he not report the murder at least twelve hours before we would have heard in the normal course of events, and perhaps several days before?”
“All right. We won’t argue. Have you looked through his clothes again?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet Rollison went through them before he telephoned us,” growled Hill, glancing at the pile of clothes on the bed where Whittering’s body had been found. “If I was the Superintendent I’d have a few questions to ask Rollison.”
While these exchanges were taking place, Rollison was sitting in the office of Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard. It was a small office, with a large flat-topped desk in the middle and against one wall a roll-topped desk where Grice’s duty sergeant worked on reports and records, and effaced himself. Grice was a tall, spareboned man with a curiously fine complexion and skin which seemed to be stretched too tightly across his face and made the bridge of his nose show in two little parallel ridges. His large brown eyes and brown hair were liberally speckled with grey.
He sat upright in a swivel chair and tried to look accusing. Rollison lolled back in an easy chair which was upholstered in green whipcord, with his legs crossed and smoke curling up from a cigarette.
Grice was saying: “You know very well that you should have sent for us if you thought there was anything wrong. Why will you take things into your own hands?”
“I will wear sackcloth and ashes if it will make you any happier, old chap,” Rollison said. “The truth is, I thought that Whittering might have made trouble for himself when he told Sheila O’Rourke that he had seen her Danny on the night of the Chelsea murder. Sheila isn’t one to keep her feelings under control, and most of the people at the clubs she’s visited know what she is after. Immediately she got a hint from Whittering she tore off to see me—at half-past one i
n the morning—did she come here, by the way?”
“Yes. The man on duty put her off until daylight.”
“I made the same mistake,” said Rollison. “Where was I? Oh, yes, Whittering whispered, the girl Babette Smith immediately came to him and created a flaming row with him. It seems possible that Babette and her friends had good reasons for not wanting to provide an alibi for Danny Bond.”
“Now you’re going too far,” protested Grice.
“Can’t I even guess?” asked Rollison, sadly. “I’ll admit that I thought Whittering might be told to keep quiet. I certainly didn’t anticipate murder. You know, Bill, Danny Bond is probably innocent, and one man who could have proved it is dead. Not good for Danny, is it?”
“I still think you’re going too far.”
“You’ll admit that it’s a peculiar development?”
“Yes, and we won’t lose any time in looking for Whittering’s murderer,” promised Grice.
“Do you know what poison was used?”
“No, the post mortem isn’t until this afternoon,” said Grice. “Have you any ideas?”
“One of the barbiturates, I’d say,” said Rollison. “How was it administered?”
“There was a whisky glass by his bed, as you know. What did you find in his pockets?” Grice put the question without a change of tone. His only reward was Rollison’s gentle smile.
“How unworthy, William! I didn’t look through his pockets.”
“How uncharacteristic!” said Grice, sceptically. “Unofficially, did you find anything of interest?”
“Unofficially, I didn’t look,” said Rollison. “As soon as I telephoned your people I hurried to Sheila’s house, because I had an uncomfortable feeling that whoever had murdered Whittering might also murder her. You’d be surprised how cold it was in the open last night,” he added. “I was waiting in Grey Street for half an hour before she arrived!”
“What time was that?”
“Something around four o’clock.”
“What was she doing between half-past one, when she called on you, and three o’clock, when she came here?”
“That is a question which is giving me a lot to ponder over,” said Rollison. “Jolly lost her before she reached the Yard. As soon as she got home he materialised out of the shadows—he’d been waiting for her too. I’ve known more profitable nights.” He stifled a yawn.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Grice inquired.
“Sit back and wait for Sheila,” said Rollison. “I doubt whether she’s any fonder of me than she was last night, but she’ll probably regard me, once she reads about Whittering’s murder, as a lesser evil than the police. She will be quite certain that the murder proves Danny’s innocence.”
“Rolly, what do you really think of Bond?” demanded Grice.
“He’s a curious mixture,” admitted Rollison, stubbing out his cigarette. “According to Henderson, of the Kim-Kam, he’s gone to pieces in the last few weeks—or months, there’s no deadline for the opening stages. He used to be a good-natured playboy. Then suddenly—”
“He came to the end of his money,” Grice interpolated. “You put his change of mood down to that, do you?”
“Can you think of anything more likely?”
“Not at the moment,” admitted Rollison, getting up lazily. “Did he tell you why he chose to go to Winchester?”
“He says he wanted a holiday.”
“He’s certainly making things difficult for himself,” said Rollison, “but be kind to him, Bill. I think perhaps we’ve misjudged him.”
“You don’t fit into the character of a benevolent uncle,” said Grice, and stared, aghast at Rollison’s expression. “Now what have I said?”
“You’ve echoed Henderson,” said Rollison, aghast. “I’m getting worried, Bill. I didn’t know that anno domini was showing his withering hand so clearly. Have you a mirror?”
“There’s one in the cloak-room. Why?”
“I want to count my grey hairs,” said Rollison, and went on more briskly: “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Put in a word for me when you report my felonious entry to the A.C., won’t you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so flippant,” said Grice, earnestly. “The Assistant Commissioner doesn’t know you as well as I do, and he might be awkward.”
“That comes of changes at Scotland Yard,” deplored Rollison. “Shall I send a written apology for calling the police so early?”
“Don’t be an ass!” Grice went to the door and strolled along the stone corridor with him. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I shouldn’t haunt the night-club districts,” said Grice. “Our chaps will make a pretty thorough job of them, and there are some raids in the offing. We’ve got a man at Babette Smith’s flat already, and—”
“You’ve persuaded me, Bill. I don’t particularly want to spend my few free evenings studying vacuous faces listening to third-rate orchestras and drinking fourth-rate spirits. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I shall try to make up with Sheila, and I think that’ll take me all my time.”
“Are you still on the sick list?”
Rollison laughed. “So they say!”
In fact, he had been injured in an affair which had started almost as innocently as this one.
When Sheila had first called on him he had been out of hospital for three weeks. To his friends, he claimed that he felt none the worse for his misadventures; to himself he admitted that he would not feel really right for months.
He was walking across Piccadilly Circus when a girl with bright red hair reminded him of Sheila. He quickened his pace. Grey Street, where Sheila lived, was a narrow turning between Piccadilly and Gresham Terrace, and a whim made him go round that way, although it added a hundred yards to the journey. The house, one of a terrace of tall, grey buildings denuded of their protective iron railings and badly in need of decoration, looked exactly like the others. Sheila lived there with her mother.
“I think I’ll pay my respects,” murmured Rollison.
He was disappointed. Mrs. and Miss O’Rourke were out, said the maid who answered his ring, and she did not know when they would return.
Rollison left his card and walked slowly along Grey Street. At the corner a man was standing and reading a newspaper. Rollison did not appear to take any notice of him, but saw him glance over the top of the paper. Something in the action, a furtive touch, made him thoughtful; the man was a detective constable from the Yard. Rollison waved to him, and the man looked down at his paper quickly.
“Grice won’t neglect anything,” Rollison murmured. “He’s making sure that Sheila isn’t bothered. I wonder where she did get to last night?”
There was a downcast look on Jolly’s face when he opened the door, and it was likely to remain until – in his own view – he had rehabilitated himself. He would not readily forgive himself for having failed to keep track of Sheila O’Rourke on the previous night. Even when he was at peace with the world, Jolly was a sorrowful-looking individual, a man who had once been fat but whose skin now sagged about him. He looked scraggy, and his features had a hang-dog look. In his present mood of self-abnegation he was positively funereal, and Rollison knew better than to chivvy him.
“Have there been any callers, Jolly?”
“No, sir. But there were several telephone calls.”
“From whom?”
“Miss O’Rourke telephoned,” said Jolly in a monotonous voice, “and asked for you.”
“Did she leave a message?”
“No, sir. When I told her that you were out, she uttered an exclamation which appeared to be one of exasperation, and rang off.”
“Characteristic of her,” murmured Rollison. “Who else?”
“Lady Matilda Wirrington telephoned to say that she is expecting you this evening, sir.”
“Aunt Matilda? Why on earth does she—?”
“I understand that it is a birthday celebration, sir,
” said Jolly.
“Good Lord, I forgot! Jolly, go and get—”
“I had already noticed the date, sir, and took the liberty of ordering roses, which have been sent round with your card.”
“What would I do without you?” asked Rollison. “Anyone else?”
“A gentleman named Stewart telephoned and asked for an appointment at half-past two this afternoon,” said Jolly. “He would not state his business, but said he was sure you would be interested in what he had to say. I pressed him to be more explicit, but he refused. I told him that as far as I was aware you had no engagement for this afternoon, but that I could not be sure. Will you be in, sir?”
“Was he young or old?”
“He had a young voice.”
“I’ll see him, anyhow.”
Rollison went into a room which Jolly insisted on calling his study. There were books and there was a desk, but Rollison used it as a living-room.
The whole of one wall was filled with remarkable ornaments, among them knives, whips, small glass bottles in tiny show cases, firearms of astonishing variety from a flint-lock pistol to a Thompson sub-machine gun. Although disapproving, Jolly dusted these carefully each day, and there were times when Rollison leaned back and looked at them fondly; each one was a souvenir of a case in which he had been involved. Near the ceiling in the middle of the wall, hanging on a peg, was a top hat with three bullet holes in the centre. It was Rollison’s top hat.
On the desk was the telephone and by it a pad on which Jolly made notes. Rollison read: ‘Miss O’Rourke, Lady M.W. Mr. Stewart, Win.’ He frowned, and called: “Jolly!”
“Did you call, sir?” asked Jolly from the door.
“Yes. What does ‘Win’ mean?”
Jolly stared at him, gulped, flushed, and said in tones of deep humility: “I am extremely sorry, sir. I omitted to tell you that Mr. Stewart telephoned from Winchester.”
“Winchester!” exclaimed Rollison, his eyes bright. “Now, can that be coincidence?—the city where Danny Bond went into hiding? We will see Stewart the moment he comes in.”
During lunch, Rollison fell to speculating on the possibility of Mr. Stewart of Winchester wanting to enlist his services in some matter which only he believed to be of supreme importance. Rollison was the last man to refuse to believe in coincidence. It was ridiculous to assume that because Stewart came from Winchester his call would concern Danny Bond. Yet he was keyed-up when the small chiming-dock on a wall-bracket struck half-past two. He went to the window to see Stewart before he arrived at the flat.
