by John Creasey
“According to what you’ve freely told us, and apart from what you’ve kept back,” went on Grice, in a more formal voice, “Lancelot Stewart believed that his son was or would be involved, and Sheila O’Rourke was also concerned about him. When all those things are added up, they make a strong reason for suspecting that Alec Stewart isn’t quite the injured innocent that he makes out.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rollison Goes To Town
In the several years of their association, Rollison had found that Grice was a difficult man to deceive. What it would have taken many men days to unravel, Grice often cleared up in hours; by close reasoning and careful attention he had come to the conclusion that Alec Stewart’s story might be entirely fictitious – might in fact be due to complicity in the crimes.
Rollison wondered what Grice would think if he knew about Sheila’s visit to Whittering’s flat.
“I see you agree,” said Grice dryly.
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Rollison.
“You like young Stewart, don’t you?”
Rollison smiled. “King likes Murgatroyd.”
“If you can think of any good reason why Stewart shouldn’t be questioned, let’s hear it now,” said Grice briskly. “There are one or two other things, also, which you mustn’t overlook.” His voice was friendly, but the atmosphere remained tense. “You tried to prevent King from having the bungalow watched, and that might be construed into wanting to keep attention off Alec Stewart. King had it watched, in spite of that, and there was some shooting. You deliberately deceived his men about Babette Smith, didn’t you?”
“Haven’t I told you so?”
“Only since you lost Babette and the package, and couldn’t hide the fact that you’d been in trouble.”
“I am beginning to feel the chill winds of unpopularity,” said Rollison.
“You’ll feel an icy blast if you don’t stop acting on your own. In the past you’ve at least pretended to keep in touch with us.”
“This time I haven’t just pretended, I’ve done so,” said Rollison, and raised his hands high. “Bill, I know nothing more than I’ve told you, nothing which would help with the case.”
“But you know something!”
“Would I clutter you up with irrelevancies?” asked Rollison, blandly.
“Yes, if you thought they’d serve your purpose,” said Grice. “Rolly, I don’t want to force an issue, but if you are withholding material facts, it won’t do you any good.”
If Grice had any real reason for believing that he was keeping back essential facts, it would have been voiced then. If he thought that he could force the issue, he would take a stronger line.
“Noted,” said Rollison. “What about your own reticence? You’re every bit as bad as I. What have you discovered about Babette and/or Deirdre Bryan? If you must know how I know that you’ve found something, it was in the lift of your eyebrows just then. Have you ever seen more expressive eyebrows?” he demanded of King. “Dark, bushy, mobile—”
Grice laughed.
“Babette Smith, which is a real name, is Deirdre Bryan—or rather, she was before her marriage. The ‘Babette’ is her second Christian name. Her husband is in the Far East. Her parents have disowned her and she appears to be living a loose life. That’s the sum total of all I know about Babette Smith, who was a friend of Whittering and a member of a group which spread itself to offer hospitality to Americans and other Nato officers, and then fleeced them.”
“It’s curious how feared or friendly forces keep cropping up,” said Rollison. “Well, you can stay up all night if you want to. I’m going to bed! In the morning I’m going to see that all is well at the poultry farm, and then I’m going to London. Don’t arrest Alec yet, will you?”
He shook hands.
When he had gone, Inspector King looked at Grice, and Grice rubbed his chin and his eyebrows shot upwards, making two remarkable curves. King laughed.
“I haven’t met him before.”
“I don’t know whether to commiserate or to congratulate,” said Grice. “He gives us plenty of headaches, and he has some pertinent theory in his mind now. He also knows something which he hasn’t passed on.”
“Can you frighten him into talking?”
“Frighten the Toff! I think he’d be silent out of sheer cussedness if we tried to. He is everything that he shouldn’t be from the point of view of an orthodox policeman, but I’ve never known any harm come by letting him have his head. He’s much less boisterous than he once was, too.”
“Less!”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” asked Grice, standing up. “Well, I don’t see that we can do much more tonight. We will be told if there is any trouble at the poultry farm, won’t we?”
“Yes, a car with a radio is stationed nearby.”
“Good,” said Grice, and took his leave, going to a smaller hotel not far from the Royal.
Just after one o’clock the next day Rollison, his face still swollen and stiff, passed the barrier at Waterloo Station and sauntered towards the bookstall. He bought copies of the early editions of the evening papers, and went to the tube to finish his journey.
He had visited Jolly, who was on the mend, and also the trio at the bungalow. He had seen enough to convince himself that the only likely trouble was between Wilmot and Alec; Sheila was sharing her favours with remarkable precision. There had been one moment when Alec’s frown had held some quality which made him wonder whether there was anything in Grice’s suspicions.
At the flat he took from his case the small dagger which had been used as a javelin. The handle was smooth, and on it was the familiar hall mark. He dusted the handle carefully, but there was no trace of fingerprints; the man who had thrown it had worn gloves. It was a useful little weapon, but probably two hundred years old; the point was very sharp and the cutting-blade like a razor. Jolly had good reason to consider himself lucky.
Rollison put it with the rest of his trophies, where it would get little attention. That, Sheila’s unfortunate visit to Whittering, and Lancelot Stewart’s unfinished remark about Babette’s father, constituted the only material facts that he had withheld.
As far as he could judge, he had not been followed from Winchester, nor from Waterloo, and no one was watching the flat. It looked very much as if the centre of gravity was Winchester.
“I wonder,” he mused, and went back to Waterloo and booked a return to Surbiton.
Frome, the Bryans’ place in Hill Rise, was a pleasant suburban house, detached from its neighbours but with houses within a few yards on either side. An almond tree in full blossom stood in the centre of a trim lawn, and there were flowering bushes on beds which edged the lawn; everything was neat and prim, and the house itself gave an impression of being well-cared for. There were net curtains at the ground-floor windows, green paint glistened in the bright sunlight, the brass of letter-box, bell, and knocker was highly polished.
A man opened the door. He was a short, thick-set fellow with snow-white hair; yet his face was not that of a very old man.
“Well?” His gruff voice told Rollison that it was the man who had answered the telephone to him two days before.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison, politely, “may I see Miss Deirdre Bryan?”
“She isn’t here,” said the old-young man, and began to close the door. Rollison’s foot was in it.
“Then may I see Mrs. Babette Smith?”
“I don’t know who—” began the man. Then the door struck Rollison’s foot, and he looked down and flushed angrily. “Take your foot away!”
“Not until I’ve seen Babette.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”
“Your daughter,” said Rollison. “You are Bryan, aren’t you?”
“My daughter isn’t married.”
“Your daughter is married to a man in the Far East,” said Rollison. “Her name is Smith, and she is in this house now. I’ve gone to
considerable trouble to avoid bringing the police, but if you insist on being obstinate I’ll have to bring them along with a search-warrant.”
The man stared at him, his blue eyes narrowed and angry. He was very much like his daughter, with the same long concave nose, the same narrow chin; but his figure was stocky and hers was tall and willowy.
Then, abruptly, Babette’s voice came from the hall.
“All right, Father. We’d better let him in.”
“Now that is much better,” said Rollison, suddenly elated.
To his surprise, Babette looked tired and haggard, as if she had not slept. She was wearing a simple black frock, and had not made-up that day; she looked really plain. She was standing by the open door of the downstairs room, and her father stood aside to let Rollison pass.
“Did you have to come here?” Babette asked, wearily.
“I thought it wise,” said Rollison. “You’re making things very difficult for yourself, Babette. Lancelot Stewart died, and you are suspected of poisoning him.”
“Babette!” In the young-old man’s voice was a note of alarm, and almost of despair. “You didn’t tell me that Lance was dead.”
“I didn’t know,” said Babette. “I knew he was ill, that’s all.”
“Babette!” cried the man, and his voice trailed off.
“I’ll see Rollison alone,” said Babette.
Her father walked slowly along the passage by the stairs and went into a room at the far end. Babette turned into a front room, which was well-furnished and in excellent taste; it was surprisingly large, with windows at either end. Near French windows leading to the back garden was a baby grand piano with a walnut case. The carpet was dark green in colour, and with a thick pile.
Babette walked slowly to the piano and sat on the stool. She let her fingers run along the keys.
“Must you entertain me like that?” asked Rollison.
She flared up. “Must you hound me every minute of the day and night!”
“You know, you started the hounding,” said Rollison. “Where’s the package? Did they take it away from you?”
“Yes.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You can go on not believing me, but it’s true. I don’t know what’s in it. I—” She broke off and banged the keys savagely, but still without tune. “I’m so tired of it, so utterly tired of it all!”
“You felt thoroughly confident yesterday because you thought you had found the package and that you could get away with it,” Rollison said. “You say that you don’t know what is in it, and yet it made such a difference to you. You risked your life going through that window, you risked being suspected of Lance’s murder, all because of the package. I know the loss of it makes you bitter, but why such an effect if you don’t know the contents?”
“You’re good at guessing,” she said.
Rollison did not speak, and watched her staring down at the keys, both hands resting on them, in an attitude of utter dejection; he thought that there was something deeper than dejection, and when at last he broke the silence, he said: “Did Lancelot Stewart mean so much to you?”
She looked up, fiercely. “I won’t talk about it!”
“I didn’t realise it, Babette, or I would have broken the news less abruptly.”
“You wouldn’t have cared a damn!” she cried. “You’re not interested in anything but your problem! You have to find a man and get him hanged, that’s all that matters to you. You would have had Lance hanged if you had half a chance, and you’ll try to get me hanged now! You can’t convince me with your smooth voice. The police are probably outside now, and as soon as you think the time is ripe you’ll send for them.”
Slowly, Rollison shook his head. “They don’t know I’m here.”
“Oh, don’t lie to me!”
Rollison stepped to the window and looked at a bed of roses and at ramblers on rustic woodwork beyond which he could see a tidy vegetable garden. Heavy clouds were rolling up from the south, and blotting out the sun. The room grew dark, and a few spots of rain fell on the window, making a sharp sound which made Babette look up suddenly.
“What’s that?” Her voice was tense.
“Rain on the window,” said the Toff. “You’re too jumpy. What was in that package?”
“I tell you I don’t know!”
“Why were you so anxious to get it?”
She said: “I had to get it. I think it will help me in this beastly business. It would have helped Lance, too.” She caught her breath. “And Danny Bond.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.”
“You’re nothing but a police spy!”
Rollison laughed, in spite of himself.
“The police didn’t think so last night. In fact I made myself extremely unpopular. Did Lance live here?”
“Part—part of the time.”
“I’d like to see his room.”
“What good will that do, now?”
“I’d like to see it,” insisted Rollison.
She rose from the stool, went to the door, and led the way upstairs. She thrust open the door of a small, pleasant room, although then it was gloomy and rain was streaming down the window. There was a bureau desk in one corner, and on the walls were several unexpected things – a sabre, an early bayonet, a kris, and several knives and daggers, all neatly arranged. He examined the daggers intently, and she caught her breath. Suddenly he took one from the wall, next to an empty space; it was the fellow to the one now in his flat. He weighed it in his hands, and said: “My man was nearly murdered with one like this, Babette. Once the police see these—”
Then he was interrupted by a cry from downstairs.
Chapter Fifteen
The Toff Pays Another Visit
“That’s my father!” exclaimed Babette, and turned towards the door, but Rollison was there in front of her. He saw Bryan reel back from the open front door and a man push his way in. He stepped swiftly to one side as soon as he reached the landing, but Babette was standing in the doorway, in full view of the man downstairs.
In the man’s hand appeared an automatic.
He came forward, thrusting Bryan aside roughly and banging his white head against the wall, and advanced with the gun thrust forward. Babette stood quite still. Rollison could not see the newcomer, for he kept close against the wall behind a tall cupboard; and the darkness from outside helped to hide him. He came slowly up the stairs, and at last Rollison could see his automatic, held in front of him.
“Come on, Babette,” the man said, in a harsh voice. “We’ve had enough trouble with you.”
Downstairs, Bryan was speaking in a high-pitched voice, and someone else spoke; there was a thud, and Bryan stopped speaking – so the man with the gun had not come alone.
Into Rollison’s line of vision there came a heavily-built, welldressed man whom he had seen before, but whom he could not place. The man was looking at Babette, and did not glance to the passage. Rollison waited until he had reached the landing and was approaching Babette before he showed himself. He had his automatic ready. He hooked the newcomer’s legs from under him, then swung round and fired towards the front door. The bullet struck the wall by the side of a stranger who was standing just inside.
“Bryan, get his gun!” Rollison called.
Bryan did not look capable of taking any action. Babette hurried past the man on the floor and raced down the stairs. But Bryan stretched out and snatched the gun from the frightened man.
“Lock him in a cupboard,” Rollison called, then turned, at a sound behind him. The first man’s gun had dropped from his grasp and he was trying to get it. Rollison booted him, and made him flop forward. He stepped over the prostrate body, picked the gun up, and put it in his pocket.
“Get up,” he said.
The man obeyed.
By the time he had backed into the small room, fearful of Rollison’s g
un, Babette had come upstairs again. She had recovered some of her poise; it looked as if she needed excitement to make her forget herself.
“You’ve got him!”
“Well, we’ve made a start,” said Rollison. “Who is he?”
“Don’t open your mouth!” cried the man who stood with his back to Lancelot Stewart’s collection of knives.
“Who is he, Babette?” persisted Rollison.
“His name is Arnott.”
“What is he?”
“I’ve warned you,” said Arnott. “Rollison, you don’t know what you’re up against!”
“I’m beginning to find out,” said Rollison, “and you’re going to make some interesting discoveries, too. What is he, Babette?”
“I suppose he’s a club secretary,” she answered. “There is a clique of men and women who fleece Nato officers in the West End, and he’s the organiser.”
“You treacherous bitch,” Arnott said viciously.
“I always told you what would happen if you let any harm come to Lance. Now you’ve murdered him, and I’ll see you hanged for it.” She broke off and turned away while Arnott’s face took on a strange expression, as if for once in his life he was afraid.
He did not look like a man who would be frightened easily. He was not bad-looking, but there was a hardness about his features and the set of his lips. His eyes were a pale grey, his sleek hair was brushed back from his forehead, and heavily oiled. Rollison remembered seeing him at the Kim-Kam and other night-clubs.
“If you don’t keep quiet—”
Babette swung round. “He poisoned Whittering! He wanted me to, but I refused. He put the poison in the salt pourer at the bungalow, too, and made out that Lance did it when he called there yesterday morning. He even pretended to find arsenic in this room and in Lance’s pockets.” She was speaking in a low-pitched, quivering voice. “He killed Lance. It was the same poison he used to kill Whittering. He’s a heartless, cold-blooded murderer. He’s made my life a torment, he’s ruined dozens of people. Don’t let him get away, whatever you do, don’t let him.”
