by John Creasey
The sergeant said: “If they will, sir, that is a different matter.”
What followed would depend entirely on Babette’s attitude; Rollison did not think she would do anything to implicate herself with the police, but she might not have the quickness of mind to reassure the sergeant. He had raised his voice so that the others could hear, and now he stepped forward and flung open the door.
“Come in, Sergeant! Miss Smith—”
He noticed that Babette quickly put her left hand by her side, and he wondered why.
The sergeant stepped past him and spoke loudly: “Leave this to me, sir, please. I heard shooting—what was it about?” he demanded of Babette.
She was immediately the seductive lovely of the first meeting – if a little too sweet to be true.
“Mr. Rollison was showing me how delicate is the mechanism of an automatic, and I jolted his elbow.”
The sergeant looked at Alec.
“Is that so, sir?”
“Of course it is,” said Alec.
The sergeant apologised with good grace, but asked to see Rollison’s licence. It was in order. He left, with the purple-faced constable breathing doubts into his ear. They were half-way along the drive when Rollison called after them, and, coming up, asked: “Just where are you watching from, Sergeant?”
“The top of the hill, sir.”
“Is your car equipped with radio?”
“Yes.”
“You might ask Inspector King to have the watch doubled after dark,” said Rollison. “I have to go away, and I’m worried about what might happen here.”
“I’ll pass on your message to the Inspector.”
“You might also tell him that I shall be in Winchester during the evening, and that there will be either three or four people here all night—Mr. Stewart, Captain Wilmot of the United States Army, Miss O’Rourke—a red-headed lady whom you cannot fail to recognise—and possibly Miss Smith.”
“I’ll tell him, sir, thank you.”
“Thankyou!” beamed Rollison.
He hurried back to the bungalow, and found Alec sitting in a corner where he could not be seen from either window, with the small automatic in his hand. Babette was sitting on the settee, skirt well up about her knees, examining her torn stocking. She had tidied her hair, and taken off the sable.
“Now, Miss Smith—” began Rollison.
She held up her left hand, and on the third finger was a platinum ring.
“Mrs. Smith,” she corrected.
“How respectable!” said Rollison. “You’re very cool, Babette.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“I wonder why all the women in this affair insist on being coy!” said Rollison. “Babette, I am going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer. If you’re wise, you’ll answer quickly. I don’t like hurting a woman, but—”
He broke off, exasperatedly, at the sound of a car engine. Babette’s face cleared, as if she expected a reprieve. Soon Sheila called out: “Rolly! Alec! We’re here!”
Rollison went across to Alec and took the package from him.
“I’d better look after this,” he said. “That’s why your visitors have come here, and they’ll probably guess that I’ve got it. Not a word to the others until we’ve gone. Babette, you’re coming with me. I’m not going to be in a playful mood.”
“Rol-leeeee!” called Sheila, “Aleccck! Open the door, there’s a dear!”
Rollison nodded to Alec, who looked about to protest but changed his mind and went to the door. Rollison took Babette’s arm in a grip which she could not loosen, and hustled her through into the kitchen. There he locked the back door and put the key in his pocket. He came out and locked the passage door as Alec admitted the newcomers. Sheila tumbled in, and behind her were Wilmot and the car driver, heavily laden.
“I thought I might as well bring everything!” said Sheila, breathlessly. “Is everyone all right? When you didn’t answer I thought you might have been hurt, or something.”
“Everything’s perfectly normal,” said Rollison, “but I’ve got to hurry off.” He patted her cheek. “Be good, Aphrodite! Goodnight, Alec. Goodnight, Wilmot.” He hurried to the porch, and then turned. “Oh, Alec—”
Sheila and Wilmot were too heavily engaged with the cases which he and the driver had dumped in the hall to take much interest in him. Rollison told Alec he would let him know the contents of the package, then hurried round to the back, unlocked the kitchen door, and found Babette eating a tomato as if it were an apple.
“Don’t forget the salt,” he said.
She stopped in the middle of a bite, and her face blanched.
“Come on!” said Rollison, roughly.
He hoped to get to the car without being seen from the bungalow, but suddenly, as they neared the gate, he heard Sheila calling him. He did not want her to recognise Babette, in case she came tearing down to see her, so he said: “Look straight ahead,” and turned to face the bungalow.
Sheila was leaning out of a window.
“Rolly!”
“I can’t come back, I’m in a hurry!”
“I don’t want you to come back. What did you mean about the fires?”
“What fires?”
“Don’t be dense! We were talking in the garden and you said that the old fires hadn’t burned out.”
“I was talking about your old flames!” called Rollison, smiling in spite of himself as he turned round. Babette was already sitting in the Consul, and the driver was at the wheel.
Rollison settled down in a corner, looked at Babette and, as the car started off, said lightly: “Well, Mrs. Smith, shall we talk about arsenic?”
Chapter Twelve
Another Visit From Lancelot Stewart
Babette showed no great inclination to talk about arsenic. In fact she sat back defiantly, more affected by mention of the poison than by anything else. He was far more concerned with what to do with the woman, and how to persuade her to talk. Now that the bungalow was out of sight he wondered whether he would not have been wiser to have kept Babette there, so that he could ask questions with less chance of interference if she took it into her head to scream. The close attention of King’s two policemen rendered the bungalow as unsuitable as the hotel, however.
There remained the hope of frightening her into talking but without threat of violence.
She sensed his preoccupation, and looked straight in front of her at the driver’s red neck and bristly grey hair. She had a good profile, but her make-up was largely responsible for her attractiveness; at a casual glance she might have looked a beauty. Actually her nose was too long and curved inwardly, and her chin too square, to rank anywhere near Sheila in looks. Yet the poise and perfection of her dress made her unusual. While talking to her he had got the impression that she was an educated woman.
He decided to keep silent; nothing was more likely to make her nervous. Even when they reached the Royal and he paid an advance to the car-hire driver, arranging for the man to be on hand later in the evening, he did not speak to Babette. The word ‘arsenic’ seemed to have robbed her of any eagerness to escape.
He led her upstairs, and was half-way up, with Babette keeping pace with him, when a man called after him, and came hurrying up.
“Excuse me, sir.” It was the reception clerk. “I’m a little uncertain about your rooms, sir. Can you tell me if the lady and the American gentleman want them reserved?”
“Yes, decidedly,” said Rollison.
“Thank you, sir. They were seen going out with their luggage, and I wasn’t sure. What about your manservant, sir?”
“I’m afraid he won’t want his room for a bit,” said Rollison.
“I quite understand, sir. Thank you.”
Rollison and Babette walked to his room. He opened the door and stood aside for her to pass. Head held high, she went inside, and then she stopped with an involuntary exclamation. Rollison put his hand to his pocket and his gun, and peered over her shoulder.
<
br /> “Babette!” a man exclaimed. “Did you get—?”
“Hush!” breathed Babette.
Rollison followed her into the room and looked into the startled face of Mr. Lancelot Stewart.
Stewart had been sitting in an easy chair, and he had the gas fire on. An evening newspaper was by the side of his chair, and smoke curled from a cigarette in a long amber holder. Not a hair of the man’s head was out of place. He wore a dark grey pin-stripe suit of faultless cut, and in the centre of a maroon-coloured tie with a white pin-spot, was a small diamond pin.
“No, Mr. Stewart,” said Rollison, “Babette and Mr. Murgatroyd did not get the package—I’ve got it. Take the other chair, Babette. You see how friendly I can be with my enemies,” he added brightly. “You throw a knife at my man, try to feed Alec and me with arsenic—” he paused, and his eyes were stony. “Ah, yes. So you would murder your own son, Stewart.”
“I would do nothing of the kind!” squeaked Stewart.
“You connived at his murder and are equally culpable with Babette. However, he didn’t die. What is it all about?”
Babette said: “Lance! Don’t talk to him.”
“I haven’t any time to waste,” Rollison said. He pressed the service bell. Both of them started up, and Stewart snapped: “Why did you ring?”
“I’m going to ask the maid to ask the manager to ask the police to come here,” said Rollison.
“Rollison, if you do it will be fatal!”
“I know it will,” said Rollison, “I want it to be.”
“You don’t understand! My son, Sheila, Danny Bond, all of them will become victims of this terrible conspiracy!”
“I don’t believe there is a terrible conspiracy,” said Rollison, with his hands in his pockets. “I think you’re involved in sordid crime, and that you and others with you are so scared that to save your own skins you have committed one murder and will commit others.”
“Rollison, I beg you not to send for the police. I did my best to save my son from being involved, I tried to prevent you from going to see him because I knew that you would be followed, and that terrible consequences might ensue!” The man stood up and raised one hand in a theatrical gesture, but everything he did and said was theatrical; that did not make it any the less sincere.
There was a tap at the door.
“It’s all right,” Rollison called, “I’ve found what I wanted.”
“Yes, sir,” said a maid. Her footsteps faded into silence, as Lancelot Stewart took a handkerchief from his sleeve, and dabbed his forehead. Babette was leaning forward intently.
“Thank God you are ready to listen,” said Stewart. “Mr. Rollison, I came to see you after preventing my son from coming. My one thought, my one desire, has been to prevent him from becoming involved in this affair.”
“You said that before.”
“I—I am beside myself,” said Stewart, mopping his forehead again, and he caught his breath, again as if with pain. “I must tell you—”
“Lance, be quiet!” Babette’s sharp voice made Rollison start.
“I will not be quiet! This is for the good of all of us. Against our will we have become involved in a terrible conspiracy, and I can see no way out of it unless we make a complete statement to Mr. Rollison. We are in danger of being hanged, do you not realise that?”
“If you tell Rollison, we’ll hang all right,” said Babette.
“I don’t believe it! Rollison, I told you of a friend of mine who was in great trouble. It was not altogether a true story. If only you had followed up that investigation, we would never have come to this.”
“What, more about Deirdre Bryan?” asked Rollison, sceptically.
“Yes, yes, yes! Babette—”
“Stop this!” cried Babette. “If you don’t—”
“Babette is Deirdre Bryan!” gasped Lancelot Stewart. Suddenly he broke off, and bent forward in his chair, clutching at his stomach. Just before his face disappeared from sight, Rollison saw its pallor and expression of physical agony; afterwards he wondered sadly why the crisis had to come just then. Yet there had been earlier indications, and he was angry with himself as he swung round towards the door, pulled it open, and hurried along the passage.
Coming up the stairs was a middle-aged woman. She looked startled, and drew back when he took her arm.
“Go downstairs, please, and ask for a doctor at Room 7, with a stomach pump,” he said urgently.
She said “A doc—” and turned round. “All right, all right!” She skipped down the stairs as nimbly as a child.
Rollison turned, and saw Babette disappearing into Sheila’s room. He hurried after her, but when he reached the door he found it locked or bolted. He could see Lancelot Stewart bending forward, as if in the last throes of agony. He put his shoulder to Sheila’s door, and it shook but did not open. He drew back and launched himself against it, with no better success. By then Stewart was gasping and groaning, and round the corner of the passage came a startled maid, with keys dangling from the belt of her starched white dress.
Rollison said: “Come here, quickly!” She obeyed. “Which is the master-key?”
“Th-this one, sir.” She held up a key and, with it still attached to her belt, he pushed it into the lock. Once the lock was back, the small bolt which also held the door gave way at a single onslaught. He staggered into the room, and was met by a gust of wind from the open window.
“Sir!” screamed the maid.
Rollison stepped across to the window, and the curtains billowed inwards and folded themselves about his face. He pulled them away, looked out, and saw Babette near the ground. Beneath the window was a wide ledge and at the side a heavy rain-water pipe. Below was a small, cobbled yard with several out-buildings, the roofs covered with lichen and the red tiles darkened with age.
Babette was holding on by one hand while squirming round and pulling at her skirt with the other. The skirt was caught on an obstruction in the wall.
The only way to get down was to swing from the ledge and drop; when hanging at arm’s length he would only be a few feet from the ground. Rollison could see people passing in the street, although no one glanced towards him, and Babette was hidden from them by other buildings.
He reached the ledge. It was almost impossible to lower himself gradually, and the risk of a long fall increased. He managed to wriggle the lower part of his body over, putting great pressure on his arms from shoulder to elbow. He managed to get a grip with his hands before he dropped.
He bent his knees to take the shock, staggered, and recovered his balance. As he straightened up there was a tearing sound, and he saw Babette wrench herself free. She darted towards the narrow passage to the street. Her dress was torn from the waist downwards, showing peach-coloured French knickers and long, slim legs. A dachshund yapped excitedly as Rollison swung in pursuit.
A man turned into the yard from the street, and Rollison shouted: “Stop her!”
He was only just out of reach, and a moment later he would have caught up with her. The man who had entered, however, slipped between him and Babette, and drove his fist into Rollison’s face. Rollison had no time to evade the blow, only just time to recognise the fellow who had put the fox in Alec’s poultry house.
He reeled back, recovered his balance, and evaded a second blow, intent on hitting back. Tears streamed down from his right eye. He saw Babette turn from the alley into the street, even saw the startled expressions on the faces of passers-by. Then another man came running into the narrow alley, and as he fended his first assailant off the newcomer drew up and shot out his feet; he hooked Rollison’s legs from under him, and the fall shook him badly.
He heard the heavy breathing of the men, and was kicked heavily in the ribs when he tried to get up. A heavy boot pressed on his chest, forcing him down, while the second man bent over him and began to run through his pockets.
Rollison shouted: “Police!”
At the same time he made an effort to pull the
man’s leg away, but failed. The sealed package, stuffed in his inside breast pocket, was pulled out. The foot moved and the toe caught him under the chin, knocking his teeth together painfully, and there was nothing more he could do. He heard footsteps on the cobbles, followed by excited, angry voices. He thought someone fell. The footsteps and the sound of voices faded, but a shadow loomed over him and a man asked apprehensively: “Are—are you all right?”
Rollison tried to sit up. The newcomer helped him. Soon half-a-dozen people were in the yard staring curiously at him. He dabbed at his cheek, and his fingers were red with blood when he took them away. Blood oozed down to his collar and coat, and his right cheek looked as if it had been badly cut. He stood unsteadily, with a man at either side, and was helped towards the hotel.
Inspector King of the Winchester C.I.D. accepted a cigarette and, as he lit it, looked hard at Rollison, who was standing by the window of Sheila’s room. It was nearly an hour after the encounter in the yard.
Rollison had changed, there was a neat square of sticking plaster and lint on his cheek, his right eye was puffy, and there was a bruise under his chin, which gave him a lop-sided appearance. His mouth and chin felt stiff, but some tea and aspirins had worked wonders, and he felt no other ill effects. He had admitted to King that he wished he could relax for the rest of the evening and have an early night.
In his own room, Lancelot Stewart was lying in bed, unconscious, with a doctor and two nurses in attendance; the stomach pump had been used, but Stewart’s face was pale, his features drawn, and his breathing very shallow. According to King’s latest report, his pulse was low and he would probably succumb.
“You tried to do far too much on your own,” said King.
“At least I know more now than I did. Have you got the bungalow well covered?”
“Yes.”
“Fine!” said Rollison. “If Lancelot Stewart’s life can be saved, we should know everything soon. If he dies, we’ll have to begin from the beginning, with a few useful advantages. Have you had any report about Babette Smith?”
“She was seen running out of the hotel yard with her clothes torn,” said King. “There was a small car waiting outside the hotel, and she was bundled into it. One report says that she didn’t go willingly. One of our patrol men tried to stop it, for he’d seen something of the bother in the yard, but it nearly ran him down.”
