by John Creasey
Hurrying along the opposite side of the street was Sheila. Her blue coat, quite the wrong colour for her, was flying open, her hair was curled up into a roll, but had become loose at one side, and bobbed up and down on her cheek. She broke into a trot every few paces, and then slowed down and looked behind her. A man was walking quickly in her wake.
Rollison was at the door before she knocked.
She raised her hands, and gasped: “Oh, Rolly, thank heavens you’re in!”
“Am I back in favour?” asked Rollison.
“What do you mean?” asked Sheila, vaguely. “Oh, do shut the door!” She slammed it, and the pictures shook on the walls. “What a relief to see you.” She rested a hand on his arm. “Rolly, I’ve been followed!”
“By whom?”
“Some man. Now don’t start asking silly questions, I wouldn’t tell you that I was being followed if it weren’t true and I’d tell you who it was if I knew, wouldn’t I? He followed me when I left home with mother this morning, and he’s been waiting outside every shop I’ve been to. Even when we were having coffee at Clara Bell’s he was sitting at another table. It’s hateful!” She brushed the loose hair back from her cheek. “I couldn’t show what I was feeling to mother, I didn’t want to alarm her, it was a terrible time, Rolly, I just had to fly to you. Have you seen Whittering?”
Rollison stared. “Surely—”
“Oh, why are you so tiresome?” asked Sheila, crossly. She squinted down at her hair, as if wondering what it was doing there. “If I was beastly last night, I’m sorry. When I went to Scotland Yard they behaved just as you said they would. Rolly, surely you’ve told them about Whittering, too? You’ve made sure that they’ve been to see him.”
“I’ve made quite sure,” said Rollison. “Come and sit down, Sheila, I think you’re going to get a shock.”
“Nothing could be a worse one than I’ve had already. I—oh I forgot that man! Rolly! The man who followed me.”
“You needn’t worry about him.”
“Are you sure?”
Rollison laughed. He led her to the window. A man was lounging in the street, a large man reading a newspaper. “Is that the fellow?”
“Yes!”
“He’s a police officer.”
“He’s a—” echoed Sheila, and then threw up her hand and dropped into a chair. “But, Rolly, why on earth is a policeman following me? What have I done wrong?”
“You saw Whittering last night and he told you a little, and then he went home and got murdered. So perhaps the police think that you might be in some danger, and are having you followed. Would you like a drink?”
She looked bewildered.
“Did you say Whittering was murdered?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Rollison put his head on one side.
“Could it be because he told you something that he shouldn’t?”
“But that’s absurd. He only told me that he’d seen Danny on the night that poor Mrs. Fotheringay was murdered, but I couldn’t get any more sense out of him. Rolly! Whittering has been murdered!” There was a wild look in her eyes. “Rolly, give me a drink! Give me a drink this minute, or I shall faint!”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Rollison, but he took out whisky and mixed her a weak whisky and soda. She spluttered, and put the glass down half-finished. “Beastly stuff,” she declared. “I never did like spirits. Rolly, what are we going to do?”
“First of all you’re going to tidy yourself up,” said Rollison. “You mustn’t rush about London looking quite like Aphrodite after a hurricane. There is the bathroom and if you want powder and lipstick you’ll find some in the spare-room opposite.” He took her elbow and pushed her towards the bathroom. Once inside she uttered a scream and said she had had no idea that she looked such a mess. She had come out without her handbag, too, Rolly must think she was a fool.
Rollison let her talk on, and watched her go from the bathroom to the bedroom, her hair more tidy, her coat hanging properly. She sat at the dressing-table with the door wide open, and gave attention to her make-up, with a fine array of cosmetics spread out in front of her. Suddenly she looked round.
“Rolly!”
“Yes?”
“What is all this stuff doing here? Cosmetics, and—”
Suddenly she looked roguish and knowing. “Rolly, you naughty boy!”
Rollison chuckled.
“It’s a long time since anyone called me that! My pet, those aids to beauty are there for friends, and maidens in distress. I have a lot of relatives, too.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Please yourself,” said Rollison. “Sheila, where did you go from here last night? Why did you evade Jolly, and why didn’t you go straight to Scotland Yard?”
“But I didn’t! I did! I mean I didn’t evade Jolly, I didn’t even know—Rolly! Were you mean enough to send your man after me? Well, of all the beastly tricks, that’s the beastliest!”
Rollison stepped into the bedroom, rested his hands on her shoulders, and made her look into the mirror, at his reflection. She was breathtakingly lovely, with the fresh make-up and a natural colour on her cheeks, her lips parted a little, and her hair still unruly.
“Now listen to me, Aphrodite. You went out, you knew Jolly was following you, you dodged him, and then you took nearly two hours to reach Scotland Yard. The particular thing coming to an end now, I hope, is your elusiveness. Why haven’t you told me the whole truth?”
“But I have!”
“You’re a lovely but unconvincing liar.”
“Rolly! Take that back!”
“Prove that I’m wrong, and I will.”
She put her hands on his wrists, to try to move them, but could not do so. She tried to get up, but he held her down on the dressingstool. Her eyes were stormy and her hair broke out of its roll. Then suddenly she seemed to collapse; her shoulders relaxed and she slumped forward, looking down at the beauty aids in front of her.
In a muffled voice, she asked: “How did you guess?”
“Sheila, you’re a rare and beautiful creature and I love you dearly, but we can’t go on fooling, you know. Danny Bond’s trouble was bad enough, but it isn’t important compared with murder—unless it’s the reason behind that murder. Every known circumstance points to Danny’s guilt, but the police have been impressed by the new development and are more likely to be helpful than they were before. Whatever else Danny did, he didn’t kill Whittering. The police have a curious passion for finding murderers.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Sheila, still in a low voice.
“The police know that you were missing for an hour and a half last night. During that time Whittering was murdered. Poison was put into a glass at his apartment. Did you visit him?”
He could feel her trembling.
“No!” she cried.
“Why did you have to go there, of all places?” asked Rollison.
“I tell you—” She caught her breath, as if she realised her denial was useless. “Rolly, I thought I could make him tell me more, I knew you weren’t convinced that he had seen Danny, and before I went to Scotland Yard I wanted to be sure. Oh, Rolly, it was dreadful. He—he was terribly ill. He just managed to open the door and then he collapsed. I helped him to the bed. I thought it was just that he had had too much to drink and I meant to stay there until he was sober. Then—then his breathing grew quieter and quieter, and I realised that he was dying. I was sitting there while he died. I didn’t give him anything to drink, I didn’t do anything, Rolly. You must believe that!”
“I believe it,” said Rollison, gently, “but will the police?”
“They won’t know I went there!”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No! I mean—well, how can you go into a room without touching something? Be reasonable.”
“That’s just the point. I’ve no doubt that the flat was full of fingerprints.”
“Do y
ou mean they’ll arrest me?”
“They’ll certainly want to question you,” said Rollison. “They might even detain you. The odd thing is that they haven’t called on you yet. I can’t imagine Grice holding his hand for so long.” He looked thoughtfully down at her head, then said: “Wait here.” He went into the study and dialled Scotland Yard, asking for Grice, who came on the line almost at once.
“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison, in his most amiable voice. “How are things going?”
“Slowly,” said Grice.
“No information from Babette?”
“Nothing which seems to help us,” said Grice. “She admits that she quarrelled with Whittering, but says that it was a personal matter—he insulted her, according to her story, and it would be in character. She didn’t go to his flat last night. I’ve been able to check that.”
“Did you find much at the flat?”
“Nothing,” said Grice, and then added very slowly in a troubled voice: “Rolly, I don’t like asking you this, but I think you’ll have the wit to answer truthfully. Did you clean up at the flat before you left?”
“I did not.”
“Well, someone did. You told me that there were fingerprints on the glass.”
“There were.”
“We’ve found none,” said Grice. “The place has been cleaned throughout, even the door handles and the furniture. It must have been done between the time that you left and my men arrived. That is, in the space of half an hour.”
“Bill, I promise you that I touched nothing, I was too anxious to get to Sheila O’Rourke. You’re having her watched, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Has Debber been on duty all day?”
“How did you know it was Debber?” demanded Grice.
“Sheila’s here now and Debber’s outside.”
“Oh,” said Grice. “Yes, he’s been on duty all today. Why?”
“She said something about someone else following her,” said Rollison, “and I wanted to check up. Has Debber noticed anyone else?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Grice.
Rollison thanked him nicely, and rang off. As he turned, something struck him on the shoulder, and he moved swiftly – and then saw Sheila standing on tip-toe, her arm raised; she slapped him again, but playfully, and he stared at her smiling face.
“And you tell me that I’m a liar,” said Sheila, “after telling Mr. Grice that whopper! I didn’t say that anyone else followed me.”
“Try not to make my heart palpitate by moving like a soft wind, will you? And are you aware that you have the luck of the Irish? Someone went to Whittering’s flat and wiped away all traces of your presence.”
“Isn’t it marvellous!”
“You incorrigible little minx!”
“I don’t see that there’s any need for you to abuse me,” said Sheila, sober in a flash. “I’m naturally very pleased that I shall not be arrested. Who wouldn’t be? But—” she took his hand and squeezed it—“Rolly, darling, what about poor Danny? Isn’t anyone thinking about him now? After all, I didn’t really know this man Whittering, his death doesn’t make any difference to me, but Danny—”
“I’m coming to the conclusion that Danny is better off in jail than anywhere else,” said Rollison. “Do you know anyone named Stewart?”
“Stewart?”
“Spelt ‘ew’, not ‘u’.”
“Stewart,” repeated Sheila, closing her eyes. “Stewart—oh, Alec Stewart?”
“I’m not sure of his Christian name,” said Rollison, untruthfully. “Who and where is Alec Stewart?”
“I haven’t a notion where he is at this moment,” Sheila assured him, “but I used to know him. He was a friend of Danny’s, and they quarrelled some time ago—oh, it would be a year ago now. He runs a chicken farm near Winchester. I always think of Alec whenever I see an egg.”
“Do you think of him when you hear the word Winchester?”
“Well, I suppose I do. It only just passes through my mind, you know. I don’t care for Alec. Danny would make two of him! Rolly, are you psychic?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then how did you know that I knew Alec?”
“He runs a poultry farm near Winchester, and Danny went to a hotel near Winchester—or didn’t you connect the two things?”
Sheila backed away from him, put a hand behind her until she touched the arm of a chair, and sat down slowly. Her lips were parted and her eyes wide open and rounded.
“No,” she said. “No, I—Rolly, do you think Danny went to see Alec?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Rollison, “what’s Alec’s address?”
Chapter Five
The Man Who Kept Chickens
Before Sheila left the flat, declaring that she would have to pack before going to bed if they were to catch tomorrow’s nine-thirty train, Rollison learned several other things about Alec Stewart, the most important of which was that he was on bad terms with his father. Stewart senior, Sheila said, fancied himself a great actor, but he was worse than third-rate. As far as she knew, father and son had not spoken to each other for years.
Sheila also indulged in a lot of other speculation. Rollison was glad when she left, just before seven o’clock. He looked out of the window and saw Debber following her in the gathering dusk.
Rollison put a call in to Grice, but the Superintendent was out. He left a message to say that he was taking Sheila out of London the following day; if the police had any observations to make, would Grice telephone him during the evening?
That done, he left the flat and walked along Piccadilly until he found an empty taxi. He was taken to Sloane Square, and found that Lancelot Stewart’s address was a one-roomed flatlet. The caretaker, responsive to a half-crown, told him that Mr. Stewart rarely stayed at the flat, but called there for letters sometimes. He was a caution, Mr. Stewart, you could never tell what he would look like when he came home. Why, once he had knocked them up because he had left his key behind, and he had been dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with a beard and a moustache! You never could tell with actors, could you?
Rollison agreed that you could not, and left in a very thoughtful frame of mind.
When he got back to the flat he made himself a ‘Welsh rarebit’ and some coffee, and was in the middle of the meal when the telephone rang. It was Jolly.
“I am not speaking from the Roebuck, sir, I thought it would be wiser to use a different telephone. I have booked the necessary rooms, but if I may advise you, I would take accommodation elsewhere. I do not think you will like the Roebuck. They say the condition is because of the staff problem, sir, but I doubt it.”
“It’s like that, is it?” asked Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Jolly, as I’m bringing Miss O’Rourke. Book somewhere else, will you? And hire me a car—a standard something-or-other.”
“Gladly, sir.”
“And while you’re there, make one or two very discreet inquiries about a Mr. Alec Stewart—not our visitor, a younger man. He has a poultry farm at a village called Bramley, a few miles out of Winchester on the Romsey Road.”
“I will do my best,” said Jolly. “Were there any interesting developments this afternoon, sir?”
“I’ll tell you all about them in the morning. I should arrive about half-past eleven. Be at the station if you can, but if you can’t, I’ll pick up a message at the Roebuck.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
At nine o’clock next morning, Rollison called for Sheila. As the maid admitted him, Sheila called down breathlessly: “If that’s Mr. Rollison, Kate, tell him I won’t be two jiffs.”
“Miss Sheila won’t be two jiffs, sir,” said Kate, solemnly.
Before Sheila came down the taxi-driver knocked, to declare that if they did not come right away they would miss the train. They caught it with seconds to spare, Rollison with the tickets held between his teeth and Sheila’s two heavy suit-cases in his hands, Sheila with his smaller
case and a hold-all crammed so full that the zip fastener did not run more than half-way along it. With her coat flying open and her hair loose again, she ran with her skirt well above her knees, slender, shapely legs moving like pistons.
A little group of servicemen stood by a tea-wagon.
“Go it, red head!”
“Gee, some trotter!”
“Knees up, ginger!”
A portly man leaning out of a window opened a corridor-door and helped her in; Rollison climbed in as the train was moving. Sheila pushed past him so as to get to the window, looked out, and waved to the trio of army men. Their cheer echoed along the platform.
“Thank you for your help,” Rollison said. “We would never have made it but for you.”
“Oh, my pleasure. The train is packed and there’s no chance of a seat, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind standing,” said Sheila, but before the train was at Clapham Junction a young American whose eye she caught had surrendered his seat. He stood in the doorway of the carriage, beginning a conversation to which Sheila contributed vivaciously. She seemed to forget Rollison and their mission, and soon the passengers of her compartment began to melt under the combined blandishments of Irish and American charm.
Rollison sat on a suit-case, listening absently to the chatter, conscious of a slight pain in his stomach from the exertion, and wondering whether Jolly had put spare clips of ammunition in for his automatic; he had seen his gun, but not checked up on the ammunition. He tried to convince himself that there would be no need for such precautions; he failed.
“Where are you going?” the American asked.
“Winchester,” said Sheila, promptly.
“Well, I guess that’s wonderful,” said the American enthusiastically. “I’m going to Winchester.”
“How splendid!” cried Sheila.
A guard came along when the train was beyond Basingstoke, with less than half an hour to go to Winchester. Rollison squinted over his shoulder at the American’s ticket, which read: “Waterloo to Bournemouth”. He looked up into a pair of smiling brown eyes, a pleasant face, and full lips formed in a silent: Shhhh!
