by John Creasey
“I’ve got a much better idea,” declared Sheila.
They all looked at her.
“Why don’t you and Gerry stay here?” she asked, looking at Rollison, “and let Alec come in to Winchester. He deserves a rest, if any man does!”
“I’m staying here,” said Alec. “If you care to stay, Wilmot, I’ll be glad to have you.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Wilmot, warmly.
“Then I’ll stay too!” declared Sheila, looking defiantly at Rollison. “I don’t care what you say, Mrs. Grundy died years ago, and there’s no need to tell mother.”
Rollison laughed. “Don’t you start calling me uncle! If you feel like staying, and Alec doesn’t mind—”
“I don’t mind,” said Alec, grudgingly. “They’ll have to amuse themselves, I’ve got a lot to do yet—I don’t seem to have done an hour’s work all day!”
“Oh, we’ll help!” declared Sheila. “Won’t we, Gerry?”
“Er—oh, sure, sure,” said Gerry Wilmot, bravely. “Sure, of course we’ll help, Alec. Maybe I could borrow some old pants.”
“Oh, pants!” exclaimed Sheila, eagerly. “Rolly, do you think you could get the driver to bring out some slacks for me? If I’m going to start learning life on a poultry farm I may as well begin in earnest.” She beamed at Alec. “They’re in the third drawer of the chest of drawers—no, I think they’re in the wardrobe. Oh, I’m not sure!”
“You and Gerry had better go and get what you need, and I’ll wait here until you get back.”
Sheila couldn’t wait.
When they had left, Rollison and Alec returned to the kitchen, Alec ran hot water from the tap and began to wash the dirty crockery. Rollison began to wipe up. Suddenly Alec looked round at him.
“Are you satisfied that you’ve heard the truth?”
“I think so,” said Rollison. “I wish Sheila were not so temperamental. It’s just possible that she thinks she is being clever and is keeping something else back. You know her better than I do. What’s your opinion?”
“It’s impossible to be sure of anything with Sheila. Where did she meet Wilmot?”
“Er—”
“You needn’t pretend any longer that he’s an old pal of yours,” said Alec. “I know Sheila.”
Rollison laughed. “We all met in the train from Waterloo.”
Alec dropped a spoon back into the water.
“And you brought him into this!”
“We needed more weight, you know. As things are, the situation isn’t going to be improved by bringing the police here in force. I shall make sure that they watch the bungalow all night,” he added, “you needn’t worry too much about unwanted visitors.”
Alec grunted.
“About Danny Bond,” went on Rollison, “what impression did he give you when he came down here?”
“He was frightened out of his life. Mind you, he was never a hero.”
“Did he mention a package?”
“He did not.”
“One other thing, before the others get back,” said Rollison, changing the subject. “Will you let me advance you the money against that clock? I’d hate to see it go to a dealer.”
“So would I,” admitted Alec.
“How much do you need? I suggested two hundred—”
“A hundred is plenty,” said Alec. “I’ve a big cheque due at the end of the month for eggs.”
Rollison was making out a cheque, and Alec an I.O.U., when footsteps sounded on the drive. “I’ll go,” said Alec, and went into the hall.
A man with a booming voice greeted him, and Rollison pricked up his ears.
“Ah, Mr. Stewart! I’m a little late, I’m afraid; business you know, and a most annoying break-down! However, my word is my bond, Mr. Stewart, the name of Jeremiah Murgatroyd is accepted throughout the country!” Mr. Murgatroyd appeared to find that a fit subject for laughter, and he had a booming laugh. “Ah, there it is. A beauty, a real beauty! Do you know, Mr. Stewart, I would not be surprised to know that it was three hundred and fifty years old. Three hundred and fifty!”
“I—” began Alec, and Rollison went to the door, but did not show himself.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear sir, don’t be alarmed!” cried Murgatroyd. “The older it is the more valuable, especially for a clock in such a condition. Superb! Look at the carving. Look at it! The finest English craftsmanship of an age when there were no finer craftsmen in the world. How sad that wood carving has been allowed to become almost extinct. Yes, sad indeed, extinct! Carving today, Mr. Stewart, is mere playing to the gallery, a little touch with a knife here and there, and the work is finished.
Now some of the craftsmen of the middle ages and a little later—the craftsman who worked on that clock was one of them!—were a race apart. I mean it, a race apart! Regard it, Mr. Stewart! The intricacy! The delicacy! And the colour—that lovely honey brown, so mellowed by the centuries. I know one thing, that clock has been cared for by loving hands, loving hands!”
“It has,” said Alec, “but—”
“Of course you are astonished at my frankness!” cried Murgatroyd. “Small wonder, Mr. Stewart, small wonder indeed. However, I am not a penny-wise second-hand merchant. I pay the highest, positively the highest, prices for all my goods. I could tell you that the clock is worth only forty pounds, and perhaps you would sell at that price, but that is not my way, Mr. Stewart. In my opinion it is worth, to me, every penny of sixty pounds. And so I make my offer, a firm offer, money down, and I will take it with me.”
“Seventy,” said Rollison, stepping into the hall.
He expected to see a large man, but although Mr. Jeremiah Murgatroyd was fat he was very short. He wore a suit of broad check cloth, a study in yellow and white, plus fours, a cap of the same material as his suit, and across his ample front there stretched a gleaming gold albert. He had a round, red face and twinkling eyes, a rosebud of a mouth, and a pair of ears which stuck out almost at right angles from his head.
He gaped at Rollison.
“Look here—” began Alec.
“I took the liberty of outbidding Mr. Murgatroyd,” said Rollison. “Seventy pounds for the clock.”
Murgatroyd backed a pace, and said, in a less exuberant voice: “Why should you make such an offer?”
“Why shouldn’t I want such a rare and valuable clock?”
Murgatroyd turned, with odd dignity to Alec.
“I did not understand, sir, that you had invited other dealers to bid for the clock.”
“I am not a dealer,” said Rollison. “I am a connoisseur, Mr. Murgatroyd.”
“May I have the pleasure of your name?” asked Murgatroyd.
“Bootle,” said Rollison.
“Mr. Bootle has made an offer of seventy pounds for your clock, Mr. Stewart,” Murgatroyd said. “It is a high price for a dealer to meet, although low for a private buyer. I may say that a very good client of mine, a most respected client, is anxious to have that clock. I have described it to him in great wealth of detail. In those circumstances and out of consideration for a very valuable and, let me say, a most considerate client, I will make an offer of eighty pounds.”
“Ninety,” said Rollison, promptly.
“Ninety-five!” cried Murgatroyd.
“A hundred,” said Rollison.
Murgatroyd clenched his fists.
“This is most unreasonable! I have been put to considerable expense to come out here and to make an offer for the clock, which I understood would be reserved against my offer. It is surely a satisfactory offer, Mr. Stewart. However,” he went on when Alec maintained a discreet if puzzled silence, “I will improve on Mr. Bootle’s offer by five pounds. One hundred and five pounds, Mr. Stewart!”
“Guineas,” murmured Rollison.
“Confound you, sir!” shouted Murgatroyd. “Mr. Stewart, I appeal to you as a gentleman!”
“Sellers aren’t gentlemen,” said Rollison mildly. “Mr. Murgatroyd, I might be persuaded to withdraw my offer.
”
Murgatroyd looked startled, and then his fat face became creased in a smile and he actually rubbed his plump hands together; whatever his reason, he was undoubtedly extremely anxious to get possession of the grandfather clock.
“That is handsome of you, sir, most handsome!”
“On one condition,” said Rollison, “that you tell me the name of your client and give me unimpeachable evidence that you give me the right name.”
Murgatroyd spoke with dignity.
“That is a professional secret, Mr. Bootle.”
“Then my offer remains open,” said Rollison.
“Mister Stewart—”
“I shall accept the highest offer,” said Alec quickly, and Rollison silently applauded him.
Murgatroyd scowled, looked at Rollison and then at the clock, stepped nearer and opened it, and made out that he was making a careful examination of the intricate works. He was there for some time, peering right and left, upwards and downwards. At last he turned round, and said with ominous calm: “I will give you one hundred and fifty pounds, Mr. Stewart, and that is my final offer.”
“Guineas,” murmured Rollison again.
Murgatroyd drew in his breath.
“You are a fool, sir!”
“Oh, come,” said Rollison, “I want the clock and all that is in it. I—don’t go, Mr. Murgatroyd,” he added, and to Alec’s astonishment he took his hand from his pocket and covered the little fat man with his gun. “Stay just where you are,” he added. “Alec, have a look inside the clock.”
Chapter Eleven
The Package, Mr. Murgatroyd, And A Lady
In a quiet broken only by Murgatroyd’s heavy breathing, Alec stepped to the clock, opened it again, and peered inside. Murgatroyd glared at Rollison’s gun.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Alec. He groped into the bottom of the clock-case, and drew out a brown paper envelope. It was sealed with Scotch tape, and bulged as if with papers.
Mr. Murgatroyd suddenly darted forward and struck at the gun. Rollison drew his hand back and the wild sweep missed, making Murgatroyd lose his balance. Yet the little fat man had his wits about him, for he recovered and kicked at Rollison. Rollison dodged. Murgatroyd gripped one of the William and Mary chairs and pushed it at Rollison, who had to jump aside to avoid it. Murgatroyd swung round and made for the front door, handing Alec off and even making an ineffectual grab at the packet. Rollison jumped past Alec, who was flat against the wall, and on to the porch. Murgatroyd was scuttling down the drive towards a luxurious and powerful American car.
Rollison caught a glimpse of a silk-sheathed leg and a neat shoe, poking out from the side of the porch. He tried to jump over it, but struck it with his heel; it sent him flying forward. He turned his shoulder to the ground to break the fall, and kept his hold on the gun. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of a woman whom he had never seen before. She was standing by the porch, as if in two minds about turning and running after Murgatroyd. Alec suddenly appeared, and grabbed her arm.
Murgatroyd grabbed the handle of the car door, squeezed himself in, and started off. The whine of the engine soon faded as the car hurtled towards Winchester.
Rollison picked himself up and glowered at the woman. She smiled sweetly. She was tall, dressed in an attractive sky-blue two-piece, and wearing a sable. She was beautifully turned out in every way, except that her right stocking was laddered down to the ankle; she was resting her foot against the step of the porch, but looking round at Rollison and ignoring Alec, who let her arm go.
“It is a good thing for you that you did not use your gun,” she said.
“I think I know when to use a gun,” said Rollison. “Who are you? Babette Smith?”
“That’s right,” cried Alec.
“Well, Babette Smith, you’ve made a mistake this time. The police are most anxious to question you.”
“The police detained me this morning and released me after an hour,” said Babette Smith, “and there is not a stain on my character.” Her smile seemed to mock him. “How did you guess Murgatroyd wanted the clock?”
“He offered too much money,” said Rollison. He could not fail to admire both her poise and her appearance; he had expected Babette to be someone far less polished and sure of herself. “So the police made that mistake, did they?”
“Aren’t you making one?” asked Babette. “Mr. Murgatroyd came to buy a clock, which is quite legitimate. You threatened him with a gun and I courageously prevented you from shooting at him. The Toff ’s mistake,” she said, and her smile grew even more sweet. “Someone once told me that you didn’t make any.”
“You shouldn’t believe all you hear,” said Rollison. “Who wants the clock?”
“I did,” said Babette. “But I’m more interested in the package.” She glanced at it in Alec’s hand, and shrugged her slender shoulders. “I suppose you will open it now, and then run to the police. Well, I’ve done all I can!”
“Perhaps the police will then detain you again,” said Rollison hopefully.
“Oh, I don’t know what’s in the package,” said Babette. “All I know is that Danny Bond stole it from Whittering just before he was arrested. I think it might help to catch poor Sam’s murderer, so I came to get it, with Mr. Murgatroyd’s help. Wasn’t it clever of me?”
“Very plausible,” said Rollison.
“I will do you another service,” said Babette. “If you open the package, Alec dear, I think your sweet Sheila will go to keep Danny company in prison. I don’t know, mind you. I’m only guessing,” she added. “I—oh!”
Her foot slipped off the step and she stumbled. Rollison moved to help her. She turned with astonishing speed and struck at the gun in his hand. It dropped. She kicked it away and darted back, and from the folds of her coat she drew a small automatic. She remained smiling, but her lips were set.
“Don’t move,” she said. “Alec, give me the package.”
Alec simply raised it and threw it over his shoulder, into the hall. Before she dared point the gun at him and away from Rollison, he leaned back and pulled the door to with a slam.
“Very nice work,” applauded Rollison. “Babette, put that gun down.”
He flinched as she fired at him. He stood quite still. The bullet hummed a foot away from his head. He did not know whether she had aimed to kill, but when she kept quite still without firing again, he assumed that she had intended only to warn him. She backed away, keeping them both covered.
“Open the door and get that package.”
“You’ve a most undeserved reputation with the police,” said Rollison. “Open the door, Alec.”
“I’ll be damned if I will!”
“We can’t argue with an automatic and a determined tigress,” said the Toff.
“Be quick!” snapped Babette.
Alec stared incredulously at Rollison, then put his hand into his pocket for his keys. The woman watched him more closely than Rollison, for fear he would bring out something other than a key, and then Rollison opened his mouth and uttered an ear-splitting yell which startled them both, set chickens squawking, and made Babette swing the gun towards him.
Alec, quick as a flash, lurched forward. Before Babette recovered from her surprise he had reached her and spun her round. She fired twice, but Alec held her arm so that the bullets hit the ground. Rollison took the gun from her, and stooped down to retrieve his own.
“I hope no one heard that yell, don’t you? Feeling better, Babette?”
She had gone very pale. He gripped the back of her neck and forced her forward while Alec, breathing heavily, opened the front door. Rollison pushed Babette into the sitting-room, while Alec went for the package. He stared at it, fascinated.
“Now we will have a few questions,” he said. “Sit down, Babette.” He turned her round and, putting his hands on her shoulders, pushed her on to a settee. “Who sent you for this?”
She did not answer.
“Who—?” began Rollison, and then he
heard footsteps on the path outside and, looking at the window, saw a man peering in.
His first thought was of the man who had put the fox into the poultry house. Then he saw the man’s shoulders, and his dark blue uniform.
“The police!” exclaimed Alec.
“Dear Inspector King,” murmured Rollison. “How do you feel about your reputation now, my pet? Alec and I will gladly give evidence against you.”
“Rollison, no!” There was terror in her eyes.
“Go and try to persuade the police that it’s all a mistake,” said Rollison, looking at Alec. “We’ll get more out of Babette ourselves.”
“Well, I don’t know,” began Alec. “They must have heard the shooting.”
“All right, I’ll go,” Rollison said. “Watch the tigress, she may have another gun in her girdle.” He went out and closed the door, not surprised to find another policeman entering the front hall. The man who had looked through the window came hurrying round, and before Rollison could speak, he said: “That man had a gun!”
“I always carry a gun,” said Rollison, “and with it my licence. What’s brought you, officers?”
The first man was a sergeant whom he had seen at Winchester. He liked the gleam in the man’s eyes, a pleasant contrast to the loudvoiced indignation of his companion, who was nearly purple in the face.
“So it’s you, Mr. Rollison. We heard shooting.”
“I’m a silly fellow,” said Rollison, with every appearance of frankness. “I was showing my friends how the gun works, and—”
“What about the shout?”
“Shout?” echoed Rollison.
“Didn’t you hear it?” asked the sergeant, sarcastically.
“Shout—oh, my yodelling! Come, Sergeant,” he added reproachfully, “I may not be in good voice, but—”
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to explain more fully, sir,” said the sergeant. “May I see the gun?”
“No,” said Rollison.
“In that case, sir—”
“There is a perfectly simple explanation of everything, and I’ve given it to you,” said Rollison. “Mr. Stewart and Miss Smith will gladly corroborate my story, if you wish.”
