by John Creasey
‘Guy had a telephone call at the nightclub,’ answered Angela.
‘So he left a number where he could be found after you’d persuaded him to take you out,’ said Rollison. ‘So his mind wasn’t entirely on you and romance. Did he answer the call at the table?’
‘No, he went out to the foyer,’ answered Angela. They reached the Austin A35, and she paused, her voice changing as she asked plaintively: ‘If I get into that it won’t blow up, will it?’
‘I’ll lift the bonnet first,’ said Rollison and he did so at once, so that the clear light from a street lamp shone on to the engine. ‘Nothing there that shouldn’t be,’ he assured her, opening the door for Angela, then taking the wheel. ‘And was he on edge to go as soon as he had the call?’
‘No, but he kept looking at his watch,’ said Angela.
‘What time did the call come through?’ asked Rollison.
‘About twelve o’clock.’
‘That was about the time when Smith Hall had visitors,’ remarked Rollison. ‘Did he seem pleased or sorry?’
‘Oh, pleased,’ answered Angela. ‘I had the idea that he wanted to be away from the house for a couple of hours, I didn’t have to persuade him very hard. And although he kept telling me how beautiful it would be to spend the night alone with me, I can’t say he behaved like a gallant lover.’
‘When did he say he suspected someone was at the house?’ They were moving along Holborn, then, heading for Oxford Street.
‘As soon as we came in. He brought me the back way, and when he found the door open he became suspicious. After all, that was natural. Rolly, did you really find out anything that matters? Did you find any other evidence that it was Sir Douglas who tried to attack Naomi Smith?’
‘Good lord, no!’ exclaimed Rollison.
She gaped up at him.
‘But—but—’
‘His clothes were mud-stained and the things were in his wardrobe, but he hadn’t worn them,’ Rollison said. ‘He couldn’t possibly have moved at speed, and would probably have broken his arm if he’d jarred it against mine like the attacker did. No, it wasn’t Sir Douglas. He could possibly have another nephew who could get into his clothes, and put them back in his wardrobe, but I don’t think it very likely.’
‘You mean—Guy was going to kill Naomi?’
‘There’s certainly a possibility that he was,’ answered Rollison. ‘But I don’t believe he’s the moving spirit behind all this, although he may have murdered the four victims. We need to find the influence and the pressures behind Guy Slatter,’ added Rollison, as he pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace. ‘I wonder,’ he went on almost as if speaking to himself, ‘whether there is a Mr Bensoni or a Mr Tilford in the firm.’
‘What on earth made you ask that?’ cried Angela. ‘The man who telephoned him was named Bensoni. I heard the head waiter say so. “Mr Bensoni is on the line”, he said. I haven’t any doubt at all.’
Chapter 19
BUSY MORNING
Jolly was still up, the trophies on the wall glowed under special lighting; Angela, though wide-eyed, gave a gargantuan yawn.
‘Ring Grice at the Yard,’ Rollison said to Jolly. ‘If he’s not there, call him at home. Angela, pet, if you want to be up in time to greet the morning you’d better go to bed.’
He stopped her in the middle of another yawn.
‘Not until I know what you’re up to,’ Angela said. ‘Why is Bensoni—’
He patted her head with insufferable condescension as he passed on the way to the bathroom. When he came back, Angela was sitting, dwarfed, in his huge chair, and Jolly, looking rather like a rehabilitated mummy, was at the telephone.
‘Mr Grice’s home number is ringing, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ Rollison took the telephone as Grice growled a discouraging ‘Hallo’.
‘I’m sorry about this, Bill,’ Rollison said in his warmest tone. ‘But I did promise to keep you informed.’
‘Then inform me,’ Grice said coldly.
‘The man who attacked Naomi Smith was Guy Slatter, and—’
‘Mister Rollison,’ interrupted Grice, ‘you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me the obvious, did you? We have been pretty sure it was Guy Slatter all the time, but we can’t yet establish that he killed anyone. From his reputation, we’re fairly certain that he’s not capable of running this by himself, certainly not of arranging for a gang of young ruffians to attack the hostel as they did tonight.’
‘I heard a rumour about that,’ murmured Rollison. ‘And I didn’t ring you simply to give you the name of the murderer. Someone slipped up badly tonight, and Guy had a call from a certain Mr Bensoni.’ There was a moment of silence, as if Grice was trying to see the significance of the name; and then his voice rose almost to shrillness. ‘Bensoni and Tilford!’
‘Builders, construction engineers and estate developers,’ said Rollison earnestly. ‘They, at least, are used to organising demolition gangs and so forth, and there are already flats in construction on a nearby site.’
‘Are you absolutely certain about this?’ demanded Grice.
‘I am certain that Guy was called to a telephone by a man said to be Mr Bensoni, while at a nightclub—what nightclub, Angela?’
‘The Hip-Strip,’ called Angela promptly.
‘The Hip-Strip, in Soho,’ said Rollison. ‘I also know that he then began to agitate to get back to the house. What happened when he got there, according to my niece Angela, is that he nearly caught a burglar and the burglar got away.’
‘I wonder who that burglar was,’ said Grice, drily. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home - and I do not want to go to the Hip-Strip Club,’ declared Rollison. ‘I want to go to bed, because I think it’s going to be a very busy morning. That house is being closely watched, isn’t it?’
‘Not closely enough,’ admitted Grice. ‘But it soon will be. Goodnight.’
Rollison put down the receiver as a miniature striking clock on the mantelpiece struck two. Angela rose slowly from the chair and peered up into Rollison’s face, like a trusting child.
‘So I’m not such a bad detective,’ she remarked.
‘You have eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat’s,’ answered Rollison. ‘Now you have to prove you can manage with four hours’ sleep.’
‘Oh, that’s plenty for young people,’ declared Angela,
and skipped away to dodge his descending hand.
It was full daylight when he woke, to find Jolly by his side proffering tea and the Daily Globe on a tray; Jolly must have been out to get a copy as early as this. Rollison struggled up - as the miniature clock struck six. He felt a little heavy in the head and behind the eyes, but all that had happened and all that might happen today flooded through his mind by the time he was sitting up and opening the newspaper, while Jolly poured his tea.
‘Shall I call Miss Angela, sir? She is very soundly asleep.’
‘Give her another twenty minutes,’ said Rollison. ‘I want to be off by seven.’
‘To the hostel, sir?’
‘To check with Grice, check with Ebbutt, and then get to Bloomdale Street,’ answered Rollison. ‘I—my! They’ve certainly made it the story of the day!’
There, on the tabloid front page, was a picture of Sir Douglas Slatter, of the shattered window and of the house next door. The headlines screamed:
Attack On Millionaire
Vengeful Unwed Mother Heaves Brick
‘And if that isn’t actionable I won’t have breakfast,’ said Rollison. He looked down the page to a picture of Anne Miller holding a baby, and the caption beneath this read:
Charged With Malicious Wounding
The story of the hostel and the feud between the residents and Slatter was told brilliantly, in detail. There was one
paragraph set in bold type, which read:
Mrs Naomi Smith, Superintendent of the hostel, was viciously attacked by an unknown man outside the hostel. One of the residents is known to have been murdered. Two of the trustees have been murdered, also.
In the Stop Press, in red, was another paragraph.
Gang of youths attacked Smith Hall, residence for unmarried mothers in Bloomdale Street. Police drove attackers off. See story p. 1.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Rollison turned to page three, where Gwendoline’s column always appeared. There was her photograph, and further down the page was a photograph of Naomi Smith outside Smith Hall. The column was headed: Strong Man Relents. The Story read:
Sir Douglas Slatter, multimillionaire, philanthropist and property owner, could have brought despair to twenty-three mothers or mothers-to-be.
And Sir Douglas, strictly religious - some might say a religious bigot - has always said that if a young woman is unmarried when she has a child, she has cast herself out of society.
Twenty-five of these ‘outcasts’ lived next door to him in a mansion in Bloomdale Street, close to the University of London and the British Museum. Sir Douglas owns the property. He ordered, sternly, ‘out!’
Now, one of the unweds has been murdered, and another is missing.
And now Sir Douglas, the strictly religious multimillionaire, has relented. The remaining twenty-three will not be cast out. This multimillionaire’s heart of stone melted. I salute him.
I wish I could also salute the police. Three people have been brutally murdered. All of them are closely connected with the Bloomdale Street mansion.
Why have no arrests been made?
What is the mystery behind this home where not only mothers and mothers-to-be should live in happiness - but where babies under 12 months old, now live under threat of hideous death?
Rollison finished his tea as Jolly looked in, and said: ‘Your bath is ready, sir.’
‘Yes. Did you read Gwendoline Fell’s column?’
‘Very pungent indeed, sir,’ Jolly said, as if with approval.
‘I can’t think of a better word,’ said Rollison. He lifted the telephone next to his bed and dialled Bill Ebbutt’s number at the Blue Dog. Almost immediately a woman answered in a bright cockney voice.
‘Mrs Ebbutt speaking.’
‘Hallo, Liz,’ said Rollison. ‘I’m glad I didn’t get you up.’
‘Goodness me, no - I’ve been up since five o’clock, that’s my usual time. And for once Bill got up early, too, he left just after six. Said it was something to do with you, Mister Ar, and that hostel that’s all over the front page. Poor little mites. And the mothers, too, as if they haven’t got enough to worry about. Always coming up against this problem in the army, but you know that. Well, I suppose I mustn’t keep you, but there’s one thing I would like to ask you, Mr Ar. If ever that young woman Gwendoline comes over here again, I want to meet her. Wouldn’t it be lovely if she would do a story about the army?’
‘Liz,’ said Rollison warmly, ‘it would be wonderful. I’ll talk to her about it. Goodbye.’ He rang off before she could get another word in, and then saw his door open a fraction, and Angela’s head appear. She looked half- asleep and so very young.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Do I have time for breakfast?’
‘Provided you don’t wolf mine,’ said Rollison. ‘I—’
He broke off, as his telephone bell rang, and Angela came further into the room. She wore a pale pink quilted dressing gown which was too large for her. ‘Rollison,’ Rollison said into the telephone.
‘Rolly,’ said Grice, in a very hard voice, ‘were you at Slatter’s house last night?’
Something in his manner told Rollison that the question had grave significance. He could lie, and perhaps never be found out, but if the police had to investigate then Angela would become involved in the lie, and he would break faith with Grice - who had probably assumed that he had been in Bloomdale Street. It seemed a long time before he answered, and while Angela’s eyes grew clearer, the sleepy mist fading.
Then he said: ‘Yes, Bill.’
‘Did you attack Guy Slatter?’
‘I hit him on the back of the neck - yes.’
‘Did you hit him with a sledge hammer and break his skull?’ asked Grice.
Rollison caught his breath.
‘Good God, no! Is he—dead?’
‘Yes. I had the house watched to make sure no one went in or out, and no one did, from ten minutes after your telephone call. When the daily staff went in at half-past six, they found him lying near his uncle’s desk, dead - killed like the others. I think you’d better come over at once, and make a statement.’
‘I’ll be there inside an hour,’ Rollison promised.
He looked steadily at Angela as he replaced the receiver. She had moved very slowly towards him, and was now within arm’s reach of the bed.
‘Guy?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Did—did you kill him?’
‘Did you see a hammer in my hand?’ asked Rollison.
‘Oh, my God! That way?’
‘That way. Angela, listen to me.’ He took her hands. ‘I broke into Slatter’s house last night. You did not leave the door open and you did not tell me where to find the keys. You can tell the police I asked you to persuade Guy to take you out. You can even tell them you guessed why, but you took no active part in helping me. Do you understand? If the police know that, they can make a lot of unpleasantness for you without it helping me at all. Do you understand?’
Very slowly, she answered: ‘Yes.’ She tried to free her hand but could not and that told him how tightly he was gripping. He relaxed a little, then said in a more casual voice: ‘If you still want to come, we’ve half an hour.’
‘Just try to keep me away!’ exclaimed Angela, and she pivoted round and ran out of the room.
Rollison almost laughed, but there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, and there were probably dangers which he hadn’t yet seen. Had he been watched at Slatter’s house? Had someone seen him go in and seen him leave with Angela, then gone in and slugged Guy, leaving him dead?
It seemed likely.
Mechanically turning bathroom taps on and off, vigorously towelling, Rollison knew that Guy would not have stayed unconscious from the chopping blow for more than ten or fifteen minutes at the outside. Someone, then, must have gone in almost immediately after they had left. He was sure no one had followed them, but not sure they hadn’t been watched.
Steam clouded the mirrors and Rollison pushed open the window. As he did so, he caught sight of a movement in the courtyard below.
Two men were stepping on to the bottom platform of the iron fire escape. They were not tradesmen; they were tough looking; and they wore workmen’s clothes. Leaving the open window, Rollison moved swiftly into the living room. Here he could see the road.
A battered-looking car had just pulled up. Two men got out, waited for a milk float to pass, then crossed towards Rollison’s house and disappeared. Almost at the same time, a motorcyclist pulled up, fifty yards along; he did not get off his machine but straddled it, as if he were on the lookout.
Jolly appeared, at the dining alcove.
‘Would you—is there anything the matter, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison. ‘Call Grice at once, tell him I think we’re going to be attacked.’
‘Attacked—’ Jolly began, and then darted towards the telephone. Rollison went as swiftly to the front door. It had been unbolted, but he shot the bolts and put the chain up; and the door was reinforced and almost impossible to break down.
He spun round.
‘The telephone is dead, sir,’ Jolly stated in an even voice.
Rollison stared - and then h
urried towards the back door. He thought he heard footsteps just outside as he rammed the bolts home, then stretched up and put shutters up at the small windows alongside the door. There had been a time when raids on this flat were commonplace, and everything had been reinforced.
There was a heavy knock at the back door.
‘It looks as if someone has tumbled to the fact that Angela and I might know too much for their safety,’ Rollison said. ‘They’re pretty slow - and I had the bodyguards sent to the wrong place. If this crowd really means business - and I’ve seen four who look as if they do - we’re really in trouble. They could have that door down in ten seconds flat with a single charge of dynamite. And they’ve used dynamite at least once before.’
As he finished there was another knock at the back door, and a long, loud ring at the front.
Angela appeared, fully dressed, fresh and pink cheeked.
‘Who on earth is that?’ she asked in a voice not far from scared.
‘The knell of doom,’ said Rollison, knowing that she would want no punches pulled. He went to his desk and unlocked the master drawer at the top, took out a small, grey pistol which did not look large enough to cause injury. ‘I think whoever is behind this knows that you heard the name Bensoni, and might have passed word on to me. They know I’m supposed always to be a lone wolf, and they’ll expect me to try to handle this on my own. So they’ve come to make sure I can’t - and to make sure you can’t pass word on to the police.’
A thunderous knocking drowned the last words, and then clearly from the letter box in the front door, a man called out in a rough, uneducated voice: ‘We know you’re in there, Rollison. Open the door or we’ll blow it down.’
Chapter 20
BIG BLAST
‘I see what you mean,’ said Angela in a small voice.
‘Rollison!’ roared the man outside.
