by John Creasey
Rollison went into the living-room. There had been hostility on M.M.M.’s face before, and it was certainly present now. Gillian just looked lifeless and dejected.
“It’s time we all got out of this atmosphere and went to London,” Rollison said without preamble. “The police have no objection. We can fix you up comfortably when we’re there, Gillian. How about packing what clothes you need for a night or two?”
“It’s no use, she’s not going to budge until Alan comes back,” growled M.M.M. “You might as well stop trying to do the police’s job for them. I thought you of all people would want to see it Gillian’s way, not the police’s.”
“Nobody loves me,” Rollison said sadly, “and I don’t know that I love anyone, in this business in particular. Gillian gets the sulks. You talk like a bighead and behave like an idiot. Alan is missing, and we won’t find him by sitting moping in an armchair or telling me what a disappointment I am. I’m going to London. You can come or stay here, as you please. If you stay, you’ll probably make sure that Alan’s killed, like the other two.”
He turned on his heel.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to ?” demanded M.M.M., and managed to heave himself to his feet. There was less hostility than anger in his eyes.
“I thought I was talking to Alan Selby’s sister and his closest friend. I find I’m talking to a pair of imbeciles who couldn’t care less about him.” Rollison lowered his voice and almost hissed : “What do you use for minds? If you want to get a message from Alan or his captors, you’ll have to come away. Once the Press show that I’m involved, the most likely place to pick up a message will be my flat. That’s as good a place for Gillian to stay as any, too. But please yourselves,” Rollison added, and this time turned his back on them. “I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”
They stared after him.
Outside, Bishop was studying the marks of the various tyres, and straightened up.
“Got anything out of her?”
“I’ll tell you in five minutes,” said Rollison. “Mind telling me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Any idea why Alan Selby disappeared, and why there’s this interest in the farm ?”
“No, to both.”
“Has Selby got a record ?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Lodwin had—what about the man who called himself Charlie?”
“The Yard will tell you about that,” said Bishop. “Get in touch with them as soon as you reach London, won’t you?” He heard one of his men call him, and added: “Excuse me.” He hurried off, and Rollison went to the wheel of his car and ht a cigarette.
It was smoked down to the last draw when Gillian appeared at the cottage door, carrying an overnight case, with M.M.M. limping behind her.
“Do you really think they’ll try to get a message through to your flat?” Gillian asked. She was almost animated again.
“I can’t think of a more likely place, once the news breaks.” Rollison waited for them to get in, M.M.M. at the back where he could stretch his leg with some comfort, Gillian beside Rollison. The police took little or no interest in them. At the junction of the by-road and the main road was a police car with two men on duty; otherwise the road was empty. Rollison turned towards the London road, travelling at fair speed.
Then Gillian announced in a hard voice:
“Alan telephoned me.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rollison said, and glanced at her set profile. “What did he say?”
“That he had managed to get to a telephone where he was being imprisoned,” Gillian said, “and that I must stay at the cottage, it might be a matter of life and death to him. Then another man broke in, and said that I’d be told what to do at the cottage. I hadn’t time to tell him that the police were there, because he rang off. The only good thing about it is that I know Alan’s alive.”
But that didn’t cheer her up.
She was oppressed by the sense of danger, which seemed to be following them.
11
PLENTY OF ROPE
ROLLISON kept his eye on the driving mirror, but no police car appeared on their tail; no car which they could not identify. The sense of danger was in their minds but not physically close to them, as far as he could judge. As he neared London and the traffic became thicker, he slowed down. The others had said very little, and Gillian seemed to be dozing; that might do her a world of good. With luck and a veronal tablet, she would go to bed early and have a night’s sound sleep,
Rollison pulled up near Clapham Common, where there were several telephone boxes, and Gillian opened her eyes wide.
“Just going to make sure that the coast is clear,” he said, and hurried across. It was nearly half-past six, seven hours since M.M.M. had called on him; seven hours had never gone more quickly, and none had been more crowded. He had a feeling that he couldn’t even guess what was going to happen next, except that it would be something out of the blue.
He telephoned his fiat, and after a pause, his man answered in his gentleman’s gentleman’s voice :
“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.”
“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “Remember me ?”
Jolly’s voice brightened. “Good evening, sir!”
“I gather you’re not alone.”
“No, sir, I’m not,” said Jolly. “There is an American gentleman, a Mr. William Brandt, who “
“Six feet three, coppery-coloured hair, one of my cards and a Texas drawl ?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Ask him to wait in your room until I call him out,” said Rollison. “I’m bringing Miss Selby and Mr. Morne.”
“Very good——” Jolly began.
“Hi, there!” called William (Tex) Brandt, on an extension, and there was a resounding note in his voice. “How are things moving along, Mr. Rollison?”
“Moderately.”
“Alan Selby still missing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll see you,” the American said, and then swept into deep enthusiasm. “Say, Toff, I didn’t know even the beginning of your history or I wouldn’t have been so sneery back at the cottage. I’ve had a fascinating time with your Trophy Wall. Your Mr. Jolly’s told me the story of some of the investigations, too. You must be the only shamus in the business with his own hangman’s rope.”
“But surely you keep an electric chair,” said Rollison, and surprised Brandt into a gasp, and silence. “Still there, Jolly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s an even chance that the enemy will guess where I’m bringing Miss Selby, and they might try to stop her from arriving safely,” Rollison said. “They haven’t followed us on the road, so we’d better be on the safe side. I’ll arrive just as soon as I can. Check back and front and both ends of the street before we appear, will you ?”
“You bet!” boomed Tex.
“You keep out of sight,” warned Rollison. “I don’t want Gillian or Morne to know you’ve arrived.”
“Surprise,” squeaked Tex.
Rollison grinned as he hurried back to the car. M.M.M. was leaning forward and talking, and at last had shed his mood of hostility; in fact there was a shame-faced grin at his lips as Rollison opened the door.
“Roily, I owe you an apology,” he announced.
“There speaks a sporting gent,” said Rollison, and slid behind the wheel. “Why?”
“Behaving like a heel. You’ve dropped everything to help, and you’ve also kept this Texan away from the police, so there should be a way of making him talk. There wouldn’t be, if the police had caught him.”
“No,” agreed Rollison, almost sombrely.
“What do you say it like that for?” asked Gillian.
“Gillian, facts are facts, and it is a fact that Tex the Texan just had time to kill both Lodwin and Charlie. He had the opportunity. He was the last of anyone known to us to see Charlie alive, and he went upstairs at 51, Norton S
treet, before you did.”
“I can’t believe——”
“We’ll suspend beliefs in everything and everyone until we know what’s behind it all,” said Rollison. “What else were you going to say, Monty?”
“Well, it occurred to us that the swine who are holding Alan might get in touch with me, knowing I’m a close friend of the family. So it might be wiser for me to stay at my flat, and report anything that happens to you. What do you think of it?”
“It could be a good idea,” agreed Rollison. “Shall I drop you?”
“You won’t think I’m backing out?”
“But you won’t be.”
“That’s a safe bet,” said M.M.M. and went on in a clear voice: “Nothing would make me back out of this until it’s over. I want to see Alan free, and I want to see them both free of that damned farm, whether they get five or fifteen thousand for it. In fact it’s just about the most important thing in my life.”
Rollison said : “I follow.”
He drove to Bilton Street, where M.M.M. had a flat on the third floor of a small modern block. He watched each corner and the entrance as he drove up, but did not see anyone waiting. Two policemen were at a nearby comer, and two commissionaires were at the entrance. Rollison got out, and then helped M.M.M. The younger man grunted as he put his weight on his leg and began to limp towards the entrance.
“I’ll be all right now,” he said. “These chaps are used to giving me a hand.” He smiled at the two commissionaires, who had come forward smartly. Then his expression changed and he said tensely : “Look after Gillian, Roily. I can’t tell you how much I love that girl. Alan can look after himself.”
“I’ll look after her,” promised Rollison. He turned to one of the commissionaires. “Pop back and tell Miss Selby that I’ll be a few minutes, please.” As the man moved off and M.M.M. looked his questions, Rollison added: “I’m just going to make sure all’s well at your flat. Let me have your key, will you ?”
“What would be wrong, sir?” asked the other commissionaire.
Rollison smiled but didn’t answer, and M.M.M. took out a bunch of keys, selected one, and said :
“It’s the Yale with the red speck on it. You really are thorough, aren’t you?”
“When I can be,” Rollison said.
He hurried to the lift, which was automatic, and then along the passage to M.M.M.’s flat. Number 37. No-one was in sight. He examined the lock, and saw nothing wrong with it. He inserted the key gently, standing to one side, but the lock turned easily, and there was a sharp click. He took the key out and pushed the door; it swung open slowly and soundlessly. He moved forward very slowly, and looked inside the flat, seeing the small hall and three doors; nothing else. There was still no sound. He dropped his right hand to his pocket and went in, looking into the living-room, the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchenette. The flat was empty. He turned round slowly, swiftly, and went to the living-room, where there was a writing-desk. He opened each drawer, and looked inside swiftly, found nothing of interest, and closed the drawers again. He left the door open, and would hear when M.M.M. arrived in the lift.
He went into the modern bedroom, with all the evidence of luxury. On the bedside table was a big coloured photograph of Gillian. On the dressing-table was a smaller photograph of Gillian. On the mantel-piece was a picture of Alan Selby and Gillian, taken on Brighton Pier.
Rollison listened, and heard no sound of approach.
He looked through the dressing-table drawers with a speed of long practice, and then into the wardrobe. He found nothing that shouldn’t be there; there were two old crutches, and some other oddments which M.M.M. had needed when he had learned to walk again.
Rollison went out.
He heard the lift doors close, and then footsteps came rather heavily: M.M.M. walking with his limp, and the commissionaire possibly by his side. Rollison stepped towards the door, but didn’t go outside at first. He listened for other sounds, and heard one: a door was opening. He crept closer to his door and peered along the passage. He saw a door opening, very slowly: suspiciously slowly. He saw M.M.M on his own, limping much more than he had at the cottage, and frowning as if in pain.
The door opened a little more.
Rollison stepped out like a whirlwind, and M.M.M. looked astounded. Rollison threw himself at the door which was opening so slowly, but as he reached it, it slammed. He put his shoulder against the door and exerted all his strength, but it remained closed, and he wasn’t likely to get it down easily. He took his automatic from his pocket and fired three times at the lock; then he thrust the door open.
A draught struck at his head. A door beyond stood wide open, and he could see into a room with an open window, and a man climbing out of it: a man with a gun. Rollison jumped towards him. The man fired, and the shot sounded very loud. Rollison swerved as he went, and the shot missed him. He fired in turn. He thought he hit the man, for he saw him wince, but then a woman appeared from another room, and flung herself at Rollison, taking him completely by surprise, pulling at his gun arm. The man at the window dropped out of sight, while M.M.M. came in at the door, and the woman hacked at Rollison’s shins and tried to break free. He held her very tight, and she bent down suddenly and tried to bury her teeth in the back of his hand. All he realised at this moment was that she was small and had a lot of dark hair, a canopy of hair. Her teeth scratched painfully.
Doors were opening in the passage, a man appeared, someone shouted.
“Shut that door, Monty,” Rollison said swiftly. “Keep ‘em out.” He saw Monty Morne slam the door in a man’s face, then lean against it, for the lock wouldn’t hold anyone the other side. The woman was still struggling and trying to bite and kick, but suddenly Rollison let her go and, as she staggered back, gripped her at the waist with both hands, and lifted her high off the ground. She bared her teeth and snarled at him, waved her hands and tried to strike, and kicked the empty air; but she did no damage, and Rollison held her at arm’s length, as he might a bad-tempered child. He dragged her to the window, and looked out. There was a balcony just alongside and he saw open French doors.
“You can talk to us or you can talk to the police,” he said to the woman. “Which is it to be ?” She stopped struggling.
“Let me go,” she demanded in a hoarse voice, “Let me down, and I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll talk now,” said Rollison. “Who sent you, and what were you going to do?”
“Lodwin sent us,” she answered swiftly, as if she did not know that a man named Lodwin was dead. “We had to put Mome away, that’s all I know, we had to put Morne away.”
“You and who else ?”
“I wouldn’t squeal on him ever if it would save my life,” she said, gaspingly. “I’ll squeal on Lodwin but not on him, you needn’t waste your breath. Let me go, the police will be here in a minute. Give me a break.”
Dare he let her go? And even if he dared, had she a chance to get away ?
12
HOME AGAIN
Outside, men were shouting and hammering on the door. M.M.M. stood with his back to the door, sweat dripping from his forehead, his face very pale. Rollison released the woman and slipped her handbag off her arm with a movement which took her by surprise, and said : “How did you get in ?”
“We broke into the flat next door, and then came m at the window.” She swung round as she spoke and made for the door she had closed, and presumably for the window. As M.M.M. moved from the door, a biggish man m a sports jacket and a small man in a navy blue suit stumbled in, and looked about. Rollison was standing with the woman’s bag over his arm, and a smile which they must have found infuriating.
“What’s happened here?”
“Where’s the gun?”
“Who did the shooting?”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Time gentlemen, please,” pleaded Rollison and swung the bag on his arm. “There was a burglar, I spotted him, he shot at me, he still has his gun, and I don’t
think anyone’s hurt, unless it’s the burglar because I shot at him, too. My name is Rollison, Scotland Yard will vouch for me, and it’s time Mr. Morne went to his own flat, he’s had a heavy day and his leg isn’t so good.”
“There was someone here. Who was it?” demanded the man in navy blue.
“A woman who got away,” said Rollison, and raised his right hand, to show the teeth marks, and a little blood welling up. “She got her teeth into me, and I had to let her go.” He went to M.M.M, and took his arm, and the others made way for him. “I’ll be in Mr. Morne’s flat when the police arrive,” he added, and led the way out.
• • • • •
A Flying Squad car was outside in five minutes, and Rollison was being questioned in ten. He stuck to the story, and M.M.M. corroborated it. He had taken a purse, a letter and some papers out of the woman’s bag before handing it over to the police; they wouldn’t find it easy to trace her through that bag alone.
When the police had gone, he examined the purse, which had only money in it, and the papers. They gave him no help, except that the letter was addressed to Miss Lola Bridger, 18, Kentall Street, S.W.7.
“Any idea why Lodwin should want you dead?” he asked M.M.M.
“It’s unbelievable!”
“It happened. Any ideas ?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” said M.M.M., helplessly.
“Anything in this business that you haven’t told me about?”
“No.” That was almost shouted, and was much too loud.
“Monty,” said Rollison, softly, “someone just tried to kill you. They might try again. You must know why.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” M.M.M. insisted. “It must be something to do with this dreadful business, but I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“If I know the truth, I might be able to stop another attack.”
“Goddam it, you know the truth !”
“Monty,” said Rollison, still in that soft voice, “a peculiar thing has happened to you today. You couldn’t have been more affable than you were this morning, but the next time I saw you you were very anti-Toff indeed. That’s all right as far as it goes, but I want to know why.”
