by John Creasey
He mustn’t push his luck: he must go.
There was nothing here he needed to keep from the police, except, perhaps, Daisy Bell’s photograph. He studied this again. She was exactly as he remembered, more pretty than beautiful, with fine eyes: violet eyes, he remembered. Violet – like her sister’s name. He did not quite know why he wanted to keep this from the police but found himself trying to ease the picture into his inside breast pocket. It was a tight fit, and for a moment he thought he couldn’t do it, but it went in at last, only a corner crumbling.
He replaced the files, took off his gloves, and went to the outer office, then to the door. As he opened it he heard the lift cage groaning on its way up. He slipped to the staircase, and was concealed from the lift although he caught a glimpse of three men in it.
One was a policeman in uniform; two were in plain clothes.
He had only time to take a swift glimpse: one man was tall, negroid in features but very white: almost like an albino. The other was shorter and stockier. Rollison was quite sure they were from the Yard or from Division, but had no idea that the tall one was Detective Sergeant Moriarty and the other Detective Officer Odlum. The lift stopped as he hurried down the stairs. Several late workers waited at the lift gates at one floor, and a young couple was going down the staircase.
As he reached the entrance hall, two more uniformed policemen appeared.
He kept to one side, just behind a tall man who would conceal him at least partly from anyone else who looked his way. But neither of the policemen did. He reached the doorway and the spot where he had caught up with Daisy Bell. A police car with a man at the wheel was drawn up and double-parked to his left. He turned right. As he did so he had a swift mind picture of the morning’s scene but now there was another factor.
Someone had managed to poison the driver of the car, and that someone must have been standing near here.
No! It might have been someone in a passing car. Someone on the pavement, then, or in a car. Had he seen anything which might give a clue; observed without truly noticing an action by someone near? A man putting a cigarette to his lips, perhaps; or even lighting a pipe. A woman touching up her lips, or even glancing at herself in a mirror; such little things could be noticed but not noted; would be so commonplace as to have no particular significance. But when one made a conscious effort to remember one could see the whole picture again; once photographed on the mind it was never wholly obliterated although it might be covered up for days; weeks; even months. He had to ‘see’ everything and everyone even on the perimeter of his range of vision.
He ‘saw’ a man standing nearby, heard his “Oh, my God.”
He ‘saw’ a middle-aged, very distinguished-looking woman, approaching the car briskly, with a well-dressed man. He ‘saw’ the woman as she passed the driver of the sports car, cutting him off from Rollison’s vision for a split second. He ‘heard’ the man state that the girl was dead.
No one else had been near the driver.
It was possible that someone on the pavement had ‘fired’ that dart...
No! It was too far, and cars had been in between. He ‘saw’ something else, too; the far window of the sports car had been closed, only the nearside one had been open. The woman had been close enough to shoot the arrow; in fact she had been close enough to stick a needle into the driver’s cheek. Why she should didn’t matter at the moment; what he had to do was check his memory closely to make sure that he was right. And he needed to recollect what had happened before. The young driver had stopped. As if in horror he had stared at the girl sprawled over the bonnet. Rollison could ‘see’ him, sitting strangely erect at the wheel.
Then the woman had passed between Rollison’s line of vision and the man.
Rollison’s gaze had followed her, had been full of admiration for the person in all that sensation who had kept her head. He must have watched her for a minute – well for half a minute at least. The next time he had looked at the driver he had still been sitting upright.
So – the woman could easily have killed him.
Rollison reached the far end of Pleydell Street and looked across at the closed stalls and shops of Covent Garden. It wouldn’t be long before the old market was moved to its new site south of the river; when the faintly sour smell of rotting vegetables and fruit would be gone from here. But that did not matter now.
It was nearly seven o’clock.
He had plenty of time before going to Quaker Street, and there was a great deal he could do, but what should he do?
Call Grice?
It was one thing to hold Daisy Bell’s photograph; another to hold back such information as he now had about the woman. Yet that could surely wait. There were things he could do for himself much more effectively than the police. He could, for instance, visit Kimber at the house in Jermyn Street. The moment the idea occurred to him it seemed attractive, and the more he thought of it the more attractive it became. If the police went there it could only be to make preliminary enquiries, whereas one whirlwind visit from the Toff might get surprising results.
A sobering thought came: there were at least superficial reasons to believe that Johnny P. Rains had been run down because of what he had been doing, and because he had been to see him, the Toff.
Rollison crossed the road to a telephone kiosk and called Jolly; but there was no answer. He put down the receiver and studied the entries in the telephone directory. There were two:
Kimber, Adrian & Co. Exp/Imp., 76 Jermyn Street, W.1
Kimber, Adrian V. 76 Jermyn Street, W.1.
Rollison moved away from the kiosk and walked to Mount Street, past a famed restaurant and an equally famed antique shop. He turned towards Berkeley Square, where traffic was comparatively light. He began to walk briskly across the heart of London which was so much part of his life that he could never pass any monument, such as Roosevelt’s in Grosvenor Square, without feeling at least a reflected pride. He strode at rare speed, passing the big clubs and the commercial buildings, and then towards Piccadilly Circus. Not consciously thinking, he reached the corner of Jermyn Street and felt more sure than ever that he should visit Adrian V. Kimber. He slipped into the foyer of a world-famous restaurant where he was well known, and called his own number; Jolly was still out, probably getting the photograph Grice had promised. He went to the maître d’hôtel who was at his little desk, a kind of guarded entrance to the big room which sparkled with bright silver and snow-white damask against a background of dark red. The man, short, heavy, with beetling brows, did not recognise him at first; then his eyes lit up.
“It is Mr. Rollison!”
“Hallo, Jean-Pierre,” Rollison said. “Will you do something for me?”
“But of course! Anything!”
“Telephone my flat in half-an-hour and tell my man Jolly that I shall be at Mr. Kimber’s house in Jermyn Street, if I am wanted for the next two hours.”
He expected no more than an over-effusive “But certainly, Mr. Rollison.” He expected the expressive face to go through changing emotions, making this a major performance. In fact he wasn’t really thinking of the maître d’hôtel as much as what he would do when he reached Number 76, Jermyn Street.
Slowly, however, he became aware of Jean-Pierre’s change from eagerness to shadowed concern. It would have been remarkable in any man but was doubly remarkable in this one. For obviously Jean-Pierre was startled and after a moment it was evident that he was even a little shocked. He opened his mouth as if to comment, gulped, and then spread his arms and bowed slightly from the waist.
“If M’sieu Rollison wishes.”
Rollison looked at him keenly, and then said in an easy voice: “What is it, Jean-Pierre?”
“I am very glad to perform a service for you, m’sieu.”
“But you don’t approve of my visiting Mr. Kimber?”
“Please. It is none of my business, Mr. Rollison,” Jean-Pierre insisted, but obviously he was unhappy about the task. “I will telephone Mr. Jolly as you request.”
There were only the waiters, busy in the big dining-room and two couples at a small bar in a corner, as well as the doorman, close by the door and peering into the street in case someone came up, on foot or in a taxi. None of these people could see, still less hear, Rollison as he held a hand towards the maître d’hôtel and asked more seriously than before: “Tell me what the trouble is, Jean-Pierre. Please.”
“I regret, m’sieu, it is not your concern and I should not have allowed you to see how I reacted. Please. I will telephone—”
“I know I might be going into danger,” Rollison said.
“I’ve never met this Mr. Kimber and I’m not sure I shall want to meet him again, but meet him once I must. What can you tell me about him, Jean-Pierre?”
The man’s dark eyes began to glow, the hint of disapproval and of self-reproach began to fade. He drew closer to the Toff, his manner now conspiratorial and not in any way aloof; he even rested a finger on the back of the Toff’s hand.
“M’sieu,” he said. “Mr. Kimber does not pay his bill.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Rollison, taken completely by surprise. He could at once understand Jean-Pierre’s reaction and disapproval while marvelling that a man who appeared to have a lot of money and certainly lived expensively should offend such a restaurant as this. Driven to desperation, Jean-Pierre and those who ran the establishment with him could telephone every high-class restaurant in London and warn them against giving Adrian V. Kimber cre”That is unforgivable,” declared Rollison at last. “I shall be very careful of Mr. Kimber.”
“One thing I will say,” went on Jean-Pierre. “He has a fine taste in beautiful young women!”
He sped Rollison on his way, and Rollison, assured that Jolly would know where he was, walked briskly along to 76, Jermyn Street. It was a narrow house with fresh white and black paint and highly polished windows: surely the home of a wealthy man. The nameplate was of good quality, the doorstep glistened. Rollison rang the doorbell, not yet sure what he intended to say or do; this was a job he could play by ear, which was really his favourite method.
He heard sounds inside the house, drew back a little, speculating on whether the blonde would open the door. Then the door was opened, and it was all he could do to keep his smile set.
For this was the woman who had approached the sports car in Pleydell Street and could have killed the young driver.
Chapter 12
Adrian V. Kimber
The woman looked at Rollison without speaking, as if puzzled. He said: “Good evening,” and waited as she responded, but he knew that she was looking at him more intently every second.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Is Mr. Kimber in?” enquired Rollison.
After a pause, she said: “Yes, but I’m not sure whether he’s free.”
“I wonder if you would find out,” Rollison asked, and turned on his most charming smile.
“I am sure he would want to know who has called.”
“Oh, yes,” Rollison was apologetic. “Rollison – Richard Rollison.”
She had recognised him, he felt sure; and her start of surprise was pretended. But she smiled in turn and stood aside for him to pass. The moment he was inside these offices he had a sense of luxury if not opulence, of glistening chandeliers and old mirrors and at least one fine painting opposite a large Italian carved mirror. There was a flight of stairs with paintings on the wall, and another chandelier at the landing.
“Would you prefer to go by lift?” she asked.
“Is there one?”
“It’s very small.”
“Then may I walk up?”
“Of course,” she said.
He stood aside for her to go ahead, but she hung back, saying pleasantly: “Please go up.” So he led the way and she followed. She was very close on his heels; in fact she seemed to be breathing down his neck, which was absurd, she must be at least two treads behind him. As he drew nearer the landing he heard piano music - Debussy, so light and delicate - and for some reason, quite unexpected here. He remembered the driver of the sports car, and what Grice had told him.
One sharp stab of pain – and death.
He reached the landing. The woman might not be guilty, of course, but she had been so close to the driver, and it seemed too much of a coincidence that she should be in Adrian V. Kimber’s house.
She stepped by his side.
“Will you come into the living room,” she asked. “My husband hates to be disturbed while he is playing; but I’m sure he won’t be long.”
“I will gladly wait,” Rollison said.
The piano sounded so muted and gentle; beautiful; far removed from violent death. Rollison had a sense that the player was lingering over each note, lovingly. The notes came with such purity as they passed a door which stood ajar, and entered a room which overlooked Jermyn Street. This was long and narrow, with a soft light glowing from concealed lamps. There was a corner couch; some low tables which he thought were Japanese, one vase in a glass cabinet which at first glance might be Ming. The carpet was of many but subdued colours; the paintings on the walls were Japanese or Chinese, with at least one large papier-mâché panel from Saigon.
“So you are Mrs. Kimber,” Rollison remarked.
“Yes, Mr. Rollison.” At close quarters she was very pleasant-looking, with a good and fair complexion, neatly groomed grey hair; a gentle-looking woman of much elegance. “What will you have to drink?”
“A Tio Pepe, perhaps,” he suggested. “If you have —”
“Of course,” she said, and went to a corner cabinet of intricately-carved black wood with many inlays of what looked like porcelain pictures; he knew this was hand-carved and hand-painted and suspected that it came from Bangkok. She opened it to reveal glasses and bottles; it reminded him vividly of the William and Mary cabinet in his own room. She took out a bottle of Tio Pepe and poured out, handed a glass to him and said: “Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” He chose a spindly but comfortable armchair as Mrs. Kimber took her own glass and lifted it to him.
“Your good health.”
“Cheers,” Rollison said.
He was beginning to adjust, although still nonplussed. Looking at this calm and attractive woman it was virtually absurd to think of her as a murderess. He knew better than to jump to conclusions and yet first impressions always mattered very much.
“May I know what you want to see my husband about?” asked Mrs. Kimber.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until you can both hear?” he asked. “It’s very pleasant here, and I haven’t had the easiest day.”
“As you wish,” she agreed, and sat on the couch.
The sound of music continued with haunting gentleness. The room was so lovely and the lighting so soft that the world outside seemed to be shut out; there was no sound of traffic, no intrusion although they were in the heart of the West End. Mrs. Kimber’s eyes glowed. A pearl necklace at her throat glowed, too. The round neck of the black dress showed enough of her skin to set the pearls off to perfection. The hideous things of the day seemed to fade and he was in a dangerous mood of contentment. He thought: contentment. He wondered with a strange contraction of his muscles whether there was a drug in the Tio Pepe but decided that there wasn’t: that his mood was due to the contrast with what had gone before.
The music faded.
He was aware of it and of the coming meeting, but he did not stir. There was a footfall, outside the room. Mrs. Kimber got up, keeping the glass steady in her hand, and moved towards the door. She could see the landing more easily than Rollison. He saw her smile as she said: “Darling, we have a visitor.” She waited
until Kimber was in the room, and added: “You would never believe: it is Mr. Rollison.”
Kimber was tall and fair-haired, younger than Rollison had expected. He did not pause as she spoke but glanced at Rollison. He had an abrasive kind of handsomeness which showed despite the soft lights. Abrasive? There was a great contrast between the looks of the man and the music he had been playing.
“Well, well” he exclaimed. “The Toff.”
“Isn’t it a surprise?” asked the woman, with laughter in her voice.
“The surprise of the week, at last,” agreed Kimber. “Good evening, Mr. Rollison. What made you so bold as to walk into my parlour?” He looked down at Rollison, close to him, crowding him deliberately. Rollison could not resist a feeling that despite all the indications to the contrary, Kimber had known he was here and was fully prepared. His wife moved to the cabinet but Kimber hid her from Rollison so that he could not tell what she poured out. “You have a reputation for loquacity,” the man went on. “What has struck you dumb?”
The woman laughed; softly. The man looked round and took a glass from her. “Thank you, Lila,” he said, and put the glass to his lips. “To your death,” he said mockingly, and drank deeply.
Rollison said lightly: “To all the life you deserve to have.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Kimber withdrew a foot or two, and went on in his rude and arrogant manner: “Now that you’re here, aren’t you going to ask me a lot of questions? The impression I have been given of the handsome, elegant Toff is that he hurls a torrent of penetrating questions at his victims, breaking down their resistance by the very brilliance of his cross-examinations. But a moment, please. Lila, is he handsome and elegant enough?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Lila Kimber declared.
