by John Creasey
“ There isn ’ t anything bad! ”
“—I’ll come back here and tell you, then we can both decide what to do about it,” he said gently.
She stood silent, and he let her go. Her arms dropped to her sides, all the fight gone out of her; but her fear was very deep. She moved away a little, and then said:
“It’s 5 Hill Crescent Road. The house is divided into four flats. His is upstairs—Flat A. But you won’t find anything bad.”
Obviously she was terrified in case she was wrong, thought Rollison; and she would not feel so keenly unless she had reason to fear that she might be.
* * *
Rollison pulled the Bentley up in Hill Crescent, from which led Hill Crescent Road. Outside, the calmness of the night was in strange contrast to what had happened before. Cars were parked at intervals, here and there a light glowed at a window, and the street lamps were alight but strangely remote. Rollison approached Hill Crescent Road. Not far away was the dark silence of Hampstead Heath; in the distance, a glow in the sky from London’s West End, where the lights would soon begin to dim, for it was past midnight. Rollison, wearing rubber-soled shoes, reached the iron gate which led to Number 5. It squeaked as he opened it. A porch light glowed softly, but all the windows were in darkness. He closed the gate gently, stepped to the right, off gravel and on to grass, and approached the front door.
No one stirred.
Taking a pencil torch from his pocket, he shone it on to the lock. It was a straightforward Yale and easy to force, and in a few moments he was standing in the hall-way.
A flight of carpeted stairs led upwards to a small landing, and Rollison crept towards it. Soon he was standing outside a door beneath which shone a narrow band of light.
This was Flat A.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Spell-Binder
Somewhere in the flat across the landing, faint music came from radio or record-player. Apart from this there was silence. Rollison examined the lock, and found that this also could be forced without difficulty. Very soon the door was open and he found himself in a small, brightly-lit hall, from which led four doors.
A voice sounded in the room straight ahead, and for a moment Rollison stood still—then he breathed a sigh of relief. His hunch had paid off. It was the voice of Olivia Cordman.
“. . . you’re both utterly wrong. Madam Melinska is probably the best seer in the world—certainly she’s the most famous—”
“Infamous, you mean.” A man’s voice this time, and Rollison at once recognised it as that of the man who had telephoned him.
“That’s not true.” Olivia sounded angry. “If you knew what I know about her—”
“And if you knew what we know about her. All this second-sight and fortune-telling nonsense, it’s the biggest racket out.”
Rollison started. Surely that was the voice of the man who had held him up on the staircase at Gresham Terrace. Very gently, very quietly, he pushed the door open.
Olivia was sitting tied to a high-backed chair. The two men were watching her, their backs to the door.
“Pity you don’t have second sight,” said Rollison easily, “or you might have seen me coming.”
Both men swung round to face him.
There was just time for Rollison to see that one of them was indeed the man who had threatened him on the stairs, then to notice, with a start of surprise, the strong physical resemblance between them, before they sprang at him, their reflexes so perfectly in tune that they both moved at the same instant. He had anticipated what they would do and was ready for them; and hatred of what they had already done added power to the blow he rammed into one man’s jaw, the kick he landed on the other’s stomach. As they staggered back he went for them with a fury which almost frightened him, drawing back only when one lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and the other was draped across a chair. Rollison, breathing hard, brushed his hair back and smiled at Olivia.
“Aren’t you going to untie me?” she asked.
“Aren’t I going—”
“I thought you always moved fast:
He saw her mischievous smile, chuckled, then took a pen-knife from his pocket and cut the rope which bound her. “Have they hurt you?” he asked gently.
“No. But I do feel a bit tottery.” She stood up gingerly and almost collapsed; Rollison grabbed her and she leaned against him. “Rolly dear, am I glad to see you! What are you going to do with them?”
“Hand them over to the police. What else?”
“Sure they wouldn’t talk more freely to you?”
“If you mean will I do a deal with your two nice young friends, the answer is no,” Rollison said flatly.
“You could pretend to.”
“There’s no need, now that you’re free.”
“What do you mean, there’s no need?” she demanded. “Catching them’s not the main job, clearing Madam Melinska is. Have you cleared her yet?”
“No, but—”
“There isn’t any “but” about it. Until she’s proven innocent you can pretend anything; you don’t have to play by the Queensberry Rules with that lot.” She seemed angrier with Rollison than with her abductors. “If you hand them over to the police they’ll only tell them all about that beastly old dossier, and that won’t do Madam Melinska any good at all—oh yes, they know all about it, Lord knows how, but they do. And once the police get on to that, Madam Melinska won’t stand a chance.”
Rollison said slowly: “I don’t think she will.”
“There you are then!” Olivia was triumphant. “You’ve got to make them talk. And if you can’t, I can—everyone talks to me when I set my mind to it.”
“That I can believe,” said Rollison. He chuckled as he looked down at her. “You take some beating!”
“You’re not so bad yourself. I thought you’d tumble to what I meant when I talked about Lucy being a moaner. How is he?”
Rollison told her the latest news about Lucifer Stride. Then he turned towards the two men. The man who had threatened him on the stairs still sprawled across the chair, motionless; but the man who had telephoned him was beginning to stir.
Rollison leaned over him. “I’ll take this one first. Any idea who they are?”
“That one’s Bob. The other’s Frank. Or that’s what they called themselves. They didn’t tell me any more—except that they’re brothers.”
Rollison pulled the man to his feet.
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out all we want to know. Got that famous reporter’s biro of yours? I’d like you to take down what they say.”
Olivia rummaged in a sideboard, found pencil and paper, and sat down, crossing her legs. “Okay, Rolly, I’m all set.”
Bob was moistening his lips.
“What’s your name?” demanded Rollison.
“Webb. Robert Webb.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bui—Bulawayo, Rhodesia.”
“What work do you do?”
Robert Webb hesitated. “I—we—”
“Just answer for yourself.”
“I’m—I’m a private inquiry agent.”
“You’re a what?
“I’m a private inquiry agent.”
“You won’t be any more,” Rollison said grimly. “What work have you been doing?”
“Finding—finding out about Madam Melinska.”
“Did you prepare that dossier?”
“I—er—we—yes.”
“Who paid you?”
“Mrs—Mrs Abbott.”
“Why did you go to her flat to steal the report you yourself had prepared and given to her?” This was a shot in the dark, but Rollison hoped it might pay off.
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You went to Tillson Street and broke into her flat. While you were looking for the report she returned unexpectedly, and you killed her.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“ And you killed Charlie Wray, a harmless little man who—”
/> “I didn’t kill anyone!”
“You ran him down.”
“That—that wasn’t my fault, he ran right into my car.”
“Oh-ho, so you did go to Tillson Street.” Rollison’s shot in the dark had paid off. “And this evening you followed me from Gresham Terrace and tried to run me down on the Embankment.”
“I never ran you down.”
Rollison moved forward and gripped Robert Webb’s lapels, drawing him close. He could feel the man trembling, sensed the depth of his fear. He held him for several seconds, then thrust him away. Webb staggered backwards, stumbling against the far wall.
“I tell you I didn’t run you down!”
“You’re lying,” Rollison said ominously.
“I’m not lying. I wasn’t on the Embankment tonight.”
“Perhaps you didn’t kidnap Miss Cordman.”
“Of course I did! I’d been to your flat to see what had happened to my brother. When I got there, your man was unconscious, and Lucy— Lucifer Stride—looked as if he were dead. Frank was just coming round. I managed to get him downstairs and into the car, and then she—” he nodded towards Olivia— “began to follow me. I didn’t—”
He was interrupted by a groan from his brother.
Rollison turned to Olivia. “I’m going to tie Frank to the chair,” he said. “I want you to get a detailed statement from him. I’ll take his brother in the next room and get one from him. If their stories tally, there may be some truth in what they’re saying. If they don’t—”
“They will!” gasped Bob Webb. “They will, I swear it.”
* * *
The two statements tallied in practically every detail. The brothers were private inquiry agents, they had been employed by Mrs Abbott to get information regarding Madam Melinska, they had got the information statement by statement, they had compiled the dossier and had brought it to her in London. Bob had been to see her that afternoon, not to get the dossier back but to give her further information. And he swore that she had been alive when he left.
Once Mrs Abbott had realised that Rollison was going to help Madam Melinska, she had bribed the brothers to help her frighten him off. Bob had made the ammonia bomb which Mrs Abbott had thrown at him screaming that she wanted to kill him. Frank had threatened him on the staircase of his flat. When Jolly had locked him in the bathroom he had, as Rollison had suspected, taken morphia so as to be proof against questioning. Both brothers admitted carrying morphia—they sometimes smuggled political prisoners over various borders in Southern Africa, said Frank, and morphia kept their charges quiet. He had come round to find both Jolly and Lucifer Stride unconscious, and a few minutes later his brother arrived and helped him downstairs and into the car, and they had driven straight here.
“But why here?” Rollison had asked sharply. “This is Lucifer Stride’s flat. What connection have you got with Stride?”
“Stride’s flat be damned,” Bob had exclaimed. “It’s ours. Stride was only staying with us. He’s been working for us. We paid him to get information about Madam Melinska from the girl—Mona Lister.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Clean Sweep
“The problem is, what are we going to do about the Webbs?” Olivia demanded. “I don’t think—”
She was interrupted by a heavy knock at the front door, followed by a long, loud ring.
“It looks as if we don’t have to make a decision,” Rollison said.
“What do you mean?”
“Only the police would make such a din,” Rollison told her, and opened the living-room door as a man called out in a deep but clear voice:
“ Open, in the name of the law! ”
“Coming!” Rollison moved towards the front door and opened it on three men, one of them Clay. He stepped aside and two of them pushed past, while Clay stayed with him.
“We know Miss Cordman’s here,” said Clay. “One of our boys saw the Morris in the drive.”
“Perceptive of you.”
“ And the Webbs.”
“So you know who they are,” sighed Rollison.
“We had a long cable from Bulawayo,” said Clay with obvious satisfaction. “We know what they’ve been doing—and we know how well they succeeded. We took the opportunity of visiting Miss Cordman’s apartment—just in case she had been attacked there.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, his heart dropping.
“What’s that you said?” demanded Olivia, coming out of the living-room. “You went to my apartment?”
“And found the reports on Madam Melinska,” announced Clay with heavy satisfaction. “I’d like to know where you got those, Miss.”
Rollison answered for her, telling Clay the story of his visit to the Space Age Publishing offices. As he finished, the two brothers slouched into the hallway, each handcuffed to a detective.
“We only did our job,” blustered Frank, “we didn’t kill anybody, Inspector—straight up we didn’t.”
Bob was more truculent.
“ He ’ s the guy who’s caused all the trouble.” He nodded towards Rollison. “Just like the bloody police to pick on us. We’ve done nothing. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“That’ll do,” said Clay sharply. He nodded to the detectives. “Take them to Cannon Row, I’ll be over soon.”
The men went out, leaving Olivia, Rollison and Clay alone. Clay turned to Rollison. “Found out what Stride was up to?” he demanded.
“According to the Webbs, he was using Mona Lister to get information about Madam Melinska—for which the Webbs paid him.”
Clay pursed his lips.
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me. Would the girl be likely to betray her accomplice? She must have realised that if Madam Melinska ended up in the dock, she’d end up in the dock with her—as she has done. There’s more in this than meets the eye.” He studied Olivia thoughtfully. “What do you think about it all, Miss Cordman?”
“What do I think? I think the whole thing’s ridiculous. Why the police want to bring this absurd charge against Madam Melinska I can’t imagine. She’ll be acquitted, of course,” added Olivia, with well-assumed confidence, “and then you’ll all look pretty silly, won’t you?”
Clay said drily: “From what I’ve seen from those reports, she’ll get seven years at least.”
Olivia gasped. “Oh, no!” She swung round to face Rollison, seizing his hand. “You’ve got to save her. You’ve got to, it will be a tragedy if you don’t.”
“For you and The Day because you’ve sponsored her?” asked Rollison mildly.
“Rolly, you are a beast. She must be innocent. She must be.”
Very slowly, Rollison said: “I certainly hope so, Olivia.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Olivia passed a weary hand over her forehead.
“But what about the murder? What about the attack on you on the Embankment? What about the attacks on Lucifer and Jolly? If the Webbs weren’t responsible, then who was?”
“Let’s make quite sure that the Webbs weren’t responsible,” Clay said smugly. “And now there’s no need for us to keep either you or Mr Rollison any longer.”
Rollison smiled. “Thank you, Inspector. My car’s just round the corner, but I don’t expect Miss Cordman feels much like driving, so I’d be grateful if someone could run the Morris back for me.”
Clay nodded, and taking Olivia’s arm, Rollison ushered her out of the flat and led the way downstairs.
Several policemen were stationed outside Number 5, but no one was near the Bentley.
Rollison saw Olivia in, then got in himself and took the wheel. She sat very still and was uncharacteristically silent as he drove. There was little traffic going in the London direction, but a lot coming towards them.
“Clay will be good when he’s had more experience,” Rollison said.
Olivia sniffed.
“I won’t be sorry to get some sleep,” he added, pulling up at the traffic lights at Swiss Cottage. Olivia sniffed again, and g
lancing down, he saw that she was crying, big tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hey, hey!” Rollison protested, with the embarrassment of seeing a woman cry. “It isn’t as bad as that!”
Through her tears, Olivia said: “Yes, it is.”
“But surely—”
“You don’t understand at all!” cried Olivia. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of women believe in Madam Melinska. Unhappy women, aging women, women with no hope, no purpose, no will to go on living. And she’s given them that hope, that purpose, that will. What do you think will happen to them if she’s found guilty? Oh yes, I know—”
A car behind them hooted impatiently.
“The light’s green!” ejaculated Rollison, and started off. The car behind roared past.
“—I know you think it’s a lot of poppycock, but whether it is or it isn’t—and it isn’t, actually—doesn’t matter. What matters is that all these people have faith in it. Most of them are simple, unsophisticated, decent people leading drab and dreary lives—they need this faith. You and that stuffy old establishment policeman think it’s merely a question of whether one woman goes to prison for a few years, but it’s much more than that. You don’t even begin to understand.”
Rollison pulled into the side of the road, which ran through Regent’s Park, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed Olivia’s cheeks. She took the handkerchief, dabbed more vigorously, and added:
“But don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done.”
Rollison smiled gently.
“You’re quite a person, Olivia,” he said. “I’d no idea. I’ll take you home, and in the morning we’ll size up the situation and see what we can do.”
“So long as you’ll do something,” she said gruffly. “I have to admit, I am tired.” She smiled up through the drying tears, and added: “You’re quite a person, too.”
Half an hour later, he left her at Chelsea.
A quarter of an hour after that he reached Gresham Terrace, to find Jolly up and in a dressing-gown, but everyone else gone. Jolly looked more than his age, but seemed very relaxed and was obviously pleased to see Rollison.
“. . . Lady Hurst felt it wiser that they should all go back to the Marigold Club, sir, and of course they had police protection. I am sure there is no cause at all for alarm. Coffee, sir? Or tea? Or something stronger?”
