by John Creasey
At Winchester, Jolly was on the platform, and by him stood a porter and a trolley.
“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “All our troubles are over now you’re here to look after us.”
“Thank you, sir. I have booked at the Royal.”
“Well, that’s a remarkable coincidence,” declared the American, “that’s where I’ve reserved accommodation. It’s a small world, isn’t it, sir?”
“Very small,” murmured Rollison.
“We can give you a lift!” cried Sheila.
“I have a car hired for later, sir, and a taxi is waiting.” Jolly had seen to everything.
In the taxi the American, who was young for a captain, introduced himself as Gerry Wilmot. Rollison was troubled by the American’s presence, but hustled Sheila away from the reception desk to allow him to try his luck with a room. Their own first-floor rooms were pleasant, immediately opposite each other. Jolly’s was further along the same passage.
“I must go and tidy up,” Sheila said. “It wasn’t such a bad journey after all, was it?”
“Not bad at all,” smiled Rollison. He opened the door for her, and turned to Jolly, who was unpacking. “Any news, Jolly?”
“I have not been able to get much information about Mr. Alec Stewart,” replied Jolly, “except that he does run a poultry farm at Bramley, which is only two miles from the outskirts of the town, sir. I noticed one thing at the station which I thought I would not mention until we were alone.”
“What’s that?”
“The man who called himself Stewart, sir.” Jolly opened a drawer and placed some shirts carefully into it, then pulled at another drawer. “He was on the train, sir, and came off among the leading passengers.”
“Did he see you?”
“I tried to avoid that, but cannot be sure. He was obviously in a hurry.”
“To see his son, perhaps,” murmured Rollison.
“His son, sir?” Jolly was startled enough to turn round.
“His name is Stewart, his son Alec is not only on bad terms with him, but was at one time a friend of Danny Bond.”
“Indeed, sir!” said Jolly. “It appears as if you were wise to come to Winchester.” He turned back to the chest of drawers. “I—”
He stopped abruptly, and backed away from the chest of drawers. Rollison stepped towards him swiftly, but Jolly recovered and put out his hand for the envelope inside the drawer; it was addressed to Rollison. He watched closely as Rollison slit it open and extracted a single sheet of paper. There were a few lines of typewriting.
Rollison read it aloud, softly:
“Dear Mr. Rollison, I am most disappointed to hear that you have brought Miss O’Rourke to Winchester. I most strongly advise you to return to London with her. Have you paused to consider, by the way, that Miss O’Rourke’s visit to Whittering’s apartment on the fatal night might be misconstrued if the police were to hear of it?”
Rollison glanced at Jolly. “They are fast workers, aren’t they?”
“They are indeed, sir. Is there any truth in the statement about Miss O’Rourke’s movements?”
“Yes. I thought no one else knew.”
“Then we have now the satisfaction of knowing where she went,” said Jolly, with evident relief. “Is it worth trying to find out who brought the letter?”
“Anyone calling at the reception desk could see the open register. What do you think of Miss O’Rourke’s new friend?”
“The American officer, sir?”
“Yes—Captain Gerry Wilmot.”
“It might be embarrassing at times.”
“On the other hand, Miss O’Rourke will probably be quite happy with Wilmot if we want to be busy elsewhere,” said Rollison. “I’ll have a word with him soon. Go down and find out whether he managed to book a room, will you?”
When Jolly had gone, Rollison looked through the cases and found three spare clips of ammunition. He made sure that his automatic was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket. Jolly came back to report that Wilmot was already installed in a room on the second floor.
“I have hired a Ford Classic, sir, with a driver whenever necessary.”
“Good. What’s the number of Wilmot’s room?”
“Twenty-one, sir.”
Wilmot was in the middle of shaving, but looked round with a broad smile when Rollison went in.
“I’m glad you’ve looked in, sir, I’ve been wanting a word with you. I guess I’ve rather muscled in, and I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should make myself scarce from now on.” There was a refreshing directness about him. “I hope you won’t challenge me to a duel,” he added.
“You’ll be in trouble enough without that,” said Rollison. He sat on the edge of the bed while Wilmot peered at the reflection of his lathered face in the mirror over the hand-basin.
“Is that so?” Wilmot rubbed his chin.
“Sheila O’Rourke is engaged to a high-spirited young man at present in jail,” announced Rollison.
“Stop kidding!”
“No kidding. We think that her young man might have been framed, and have come to investigate. I have already been warned to keep off the grass.”
“That’s a new one on me,” said Wilmot.
“It means don’t interfere.”
“What are you trying to do?” Wilmot turned from the mirror and put down his razor. “Frighten me off?”
“I don’t want to frighten you off, because I think you’ll be very useful, but I do want you to know that curious things might happen. Violent things.” He took out his automatic, and Wilmot gaped. “I mean it, and am prepared,” he said. “I may be exaggerating the danger, but there is danger of a kind. If you’re prepared—”
“If I’m prepared!” cried Wilmot. “Mr. Rollison, I’ve been spoiling for a fight ever since I landed.” He bunched his fists and tensed his arms, showing the powerful muscles on arms and shoulders. “Just say the word.”
Rollison smiled.
“All I want you to do today is to stay with Sheila and make sure that nothing happens to her. I shall be about some of the time, but I’ve one or two calls to make.”
“That’s dandy!” exclaimed Wilmot. Then his expression changed. “Does she know about this?”
“She isn’t to know that you know.”
“She won’t learn from me.” Wilmot put his arms up and gripped his hands above his head. “I’d better finish washing. When do I go on duty?”
“As soon as you’re ready. We’ll be in the lounge.”
In his own room Rollison found Jolly trying to satisfy Sheila, who now wanted to know what they were going to do and why they had not started to do anything. She wore a dress which really suited her, a vivid green linen cut in simple lines, which gave her figure a Junoesque beauty. It fell just above the knees, and she wore no stockings but a pair of leather sandals which matched her hair. She had performed some miracle with that, and it was a mass of curls.
“Heading for Hollywood?” Rollison inquired.
She bobbed a curtsey.
“Thank you, sir! Rolly, are you going to do something?”
“I’m going to see Alec Stewart, and I want you to try to amuse yourself with young Wilmot for a couple of hours,” said Rollison. “It will be just as well if Stewart doesn’t know that I’m a friend of a friend of Danny Bond’s just yet.”
“Well, perhaps it will,” said Sheila, pretending to be disappointed, “but I did hope that you would let me go everywhere with you. What point is there in bringing me along if I can’t help?”
“You’ll have plenty to do a little later,” said Rollison. “Would you rather stay up here, with Jolly? Perhaps you’d feel—”
“Oh, no, Rolly! And I’m sure Jolly would hate it,” said Sheila with a radiant smile. “I expect Gerry will be quite amusing in small doses, too. If you’re really sure I can’t come with you, I’ll stay here and let you take Jolly.”
“I must admit, sir,” said Jolly, when he and Rollison were in the c
ar being driven to Bramley village, “that I was alarmed when you suggested that I should stay behind with Miss O’Rourke.”
“I am rebuked,” murmured Rollison, “but I don’t think that was your only cause for alarm!”
He relaxed in a corner and looked at the passing countryside. They were climbing a steep hill. On either side were the houses on the outskirts of Winchester, similar houses dotted the hills beyond. Further away were small fields bright with the fresh green of early crops; above, clouds massed in fleecy white mountains, surrounded by the clear blue sky, cast shadows which moved slowly over pleasant hills and shallow valleys.
From the top of the hill they were able to look down over a wider valley, and a village through which the road twisted and turned. A square Norman church tower rose above the thatched roofs of cottages and farm buildings built in a cluster about the road. On the right were several large fields dotted with dark poultry houses shaped like inverted V’s. Fowls of every colour, but with white predominating, strutted about behind wire fences. A sign-board on a post in the hedge read:
Bramley Poultry Farm
Fresh Eggs—Day Old Chicks
Roasting Fowls
Just off the road was an attractive bungalow with a pleasant garden, and standing on the small drive was a car, which looked as old as their taxi. Behind the bungalow were three long poultry houses, kept off the ground by little brick pillars.
“Is this it?” asked Rollison.
“Yes, sir,” said Jolly. “I—look, sir!”
Out of the front door of the bungalow a man came running, and Rollison recognised the immaculate figure of Lancelot Stewart. He carried his hat and stick, and something yellow dropped from his hand as he ran towards the waiting car. He was too far away for them to see his face clearly, but there was no doubt about his haste. He reached the car and climbed in, while from the porch of the bungalow stepped a young man in khaki slacks and a white tennis shirt, who stood with arms akimbo and watched the actor disappear into the car.
It started off immediately.
Rollison leaned forward, and said urgently: “Try to stop it from getting out of the drive, will you?”
“What?” asked his driver, startled.
“Try—”
But there was no hope of stopping it, for the driver of Stewart’s car backed out of the gates at a reckless pace, then swung its rear towards them. They heard the change of gear as it lurched forward, sped up a hill towards the village, and disappeared over the brow.
Chapter Six
Alec
It was useless to try to follow, even had Rollison been sure that he wanted to try to catch up with Lancelot Stewart. The engine of ‘Hamlet’ Stewart’s car was far more powerful than might have been expected of a dilapidated ten-year-old Austin.
“Pull up outside the bungalow,” he said, and relaxed.
There was a wide drive-in, and the driver turned off the road and pulled up with the rear door opposite the gates. The driver got out and opened the door. The young man stood on the porch, watching the new arrivals with no appearance of pleasure. He was fair-haired, and as Rollison drew nearer he saw that a face with a rather short nose and short upper-lip was marred by a scowl.
Alec Stewart looked powerful. As Rollison approached he moved from the porch, walking very slowly, an odd jerk in his gait.
Rollison smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Stewart.”
“You may as well turn back, and waste neither your time nor mine.”
“I hadn’t thought of wasting anybody’s time,” said Rollison, and he stooped and picked up one of Lancelot Stewart’s hog-skin gloves. “Your father won’t feel dressed without this, will he?”
“I’ve got a rubbish bin at the back,” said Alec. “How did you know that I am Stewart, and how did you know that he is my father? If it comes to that, who are you?”
“My name is Rollison,” said Rollison.
He expected some kind of reaction, but not the startled expression on Stewart’s face, nor the way the man backed away. It looked for a moment as if he were frightened. He nearly fell, and put out a hand to support himself against a brick pillar about which gay-coloured rockery plants were growing, and he drew in his breath.
“You did telephone me, didn’t you?” Rollison asked.
“I—no!”
“Your father came to see me and swore that he did telephone me, although I know he didn’t. You telephoned, and now you deny it. Jolly, have you heard Mr. Stewart’s voice before?”
“Yes, sir, on the telephone yesterday morning.”
“That’s not true. I’ve never heard of you, so why should I telephone you? Look here, I’ve lost enough time already this morning. The fowl-houses have got to be cleaned out, and—”
“Has anyone told you that murder has been committed?” asked Rollison coldly.
Alec Stewart drew in his breath.
“Mr. Rollison, I do not know you and I have no desire to know you. I cannot be held responsible if someone else telephoned you, giving my name. I do not know what you mean by talk of murder, and I do not intend to waste time with you. Good morning!”
He turned, and began to walk to the bungalow, still with that jerky deliberation.
With the sun behind it, the place looked charming; ramblers already in bud were about the walls and the low roof, and on either side were dwarf rose bushes, azaleas and London Pride; the soft blue of love-in-the-mist was showing coyly amidst a raised carpet of fernlike green. From a window a cat jumped gracefully, stalking to Alec Stewart’s legs and beginning to rub his back against them.
Rollison called: “Why did Danny Bond come to see you?”
The man stiffened, but climbed the step to the porch and went into the bungalow. Significantly, he did not close the door.
“Wait here, Jolly,” said Rollison. He walked after the poultry farmer, who obviously expected him, for he waited for him in a small, square hall where an old grandfather clock, dark and mellow in colour, ticked sonorously, and two William and Mary slung chairs stood against a panelled wall. The place was not furnished as one might expect to find the home of a poultry farmer.
“You may as well be frank with me as with the police,” Rollison reasoned.
“What have the police to do with it?”
“The moment they find out that Bond came here on the night of the burglary they will want to see you,” said Rollison. “In fact, they might subpoena you. If you had to spend a day or two in London, your fowl-houses would get very dirty, wouldn’t they?”
“You think you’re very clever.”
“What stopped you from telephoning me yesterday afternoon?” asked Rollison. “I had the call, but you cut off. You had planned to come to my flat. What stopped you?”
Alec Stewart had a pleasant face, although by no means handsome; his eyes were blue, narrowed just then. Except for his curly fair hair, there was nothing in his appearance to remind one of his father, for his face was round and his chin square. None of these things impressed Rollison so much as the expression; he looked like a man burdened with a great trouble.
Rollison said: “What’s frightened you?”
Alec clenched his fists.
“Don’t talk nonsense!”
“I’m trying to help Sheila O’Rourke,” Rollison said patiently. He watched the other’s face closely and saw his tension grow worse. “I’m not interested in Bond, but I do want to help Sheila. If you won’t parley with me, you’ll have to with the police.”
“I don’t believe the police know that I exist!”
“If they don’t, I can soon tell them.”
“Why should you interfere?”
“People have a habit of doing what Sheila asks.”
“The less you have to do with Sheila O’Rourke the better it will be for you,” said Alec in a harsh voice. “If you take my advice you’ll stop letting her make a fool of you. She—” He broke off, abruptly, and then added: “It’s no business of yours!”
“We aren’t get
ting on very well,” said Rollison.
A cry from outside made him stop, and swing round. Alec moved to one side, to see past him, and the whine of a car engine grew loud. Rollison saw Jolly rush to the hired car, and thought he heard its engine start. Then another car flashed by, that in which the older Stewart had been a passenger, and from the rear of it something was flung into the air.
Until it hit the ground Rollison thought that it was a mills bomb, and he was about to fling himself down when he saw it bounce, and recognised a piece of stone with some paper tied to it. His heart was beating fast as he hurried towards it, and while his car started after the other. He was surprised that Jolly thought a chase was worthwhile, but he had little time to think about that, for Alec came after him with unexpected speed.
“Give me that!”
Rollison straightened up, with the stone in his hand.
“Give it to me, or—”
Rollison tossed it to him.
Alec caught the stone, pulled off the string which held the paper fast, and read the note. His face turned red. He screwed the note up, and stood glaring at Rollison.
“If you don’t get out of here—”
“I’ll go when I’ve some transport,” said Rollison. “What is in the note?” He stepped forward, and before Alec seemed to realise what he was going to do, gripped his wrist and made his fingers relax. Rollison took the note and smoothed it out, backing away from his aggressive companion all the time.
He read: “Alec, please, don’t tell Rollison anything.—S”
Rollison said: “And the hand-writing, presumably, looks like Sheila’s.”
“Give me that note and clear out of here. If you don’t, I’ll break your neck!”
Rollison held out the note, and in a moment of exasperation turned to go. He actually took half-a-dozen steps away from the bungalow when there was a loud squawking and fluttering from somewhere nearby. He turned on his heel.
Alec, looking away from him, broke into a clumsy run. The noise was coming from one of the big fowl-houses behind the bungalow. Rollison sped past the poultry farmer towards the long, lowceilinged shed. As he drew nearer the squawking and cackling grew louder, as if a hundred fowls were in panic.
