by John Creasey
Tea,” said Rollison, “and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Jolly.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What happened tonight?”
“Lucifer Stride called, sir, to ask your opinion of Madam Melinska’s chances of being proved innocent. While we were talking I heard the prisoner stirring in the spare room, and went to investigate—and as I went through the door I was attacked from behind. But not by Stride, sir.”
“Can you be sure?”
“He uses a quite unmistakable perfume, sir. I feel quite certain I would have noticed it.”
“So you don’t know the attacker. Jolly, what do you think of Madam Melinska?”
Jolly looked upon him earnestly, obviously weighing his words with great care.
“If I may say so, sir, I think she is harbouring a viper in her bosom. I would not trust the young woman an inch, despite her quite remarkable gifts. Apart from that—we did agree that we might be aptly described as anachronisms, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did.”
“At the risk of appearing to be old-fashioned, sir—my impression is that Madam Melinska is a very good person, quite incapable of deceit or trickery, fraud or dishonesty of any kind. It is an opinion which your aunt shares fully. In fact, sir, Lady Hurst will be deeply distressed and—ah—displeased if you are not able to establish Madam Melinska’s innocence.”
Rollison lifted his brows quizzically.
“Even if she is guilty?”
“I don’t think Lady Hurst or I consider it a possibility that she is guilty, sir.” After a pause, Jolly asked: “Will you have your tea here, sir, or in your room?”
“In my room,” said Rollison, faintly.
* * *
Rollison woke to an unusual sound at this hour; men’s voices. First Jolly’s then the voices of strangers, one deep and somehow not English, the other native Cockney. Police? wondered Rollison. Ebbutt’s men? Then he heard the man with the deep voice saying:
“I think that’s the lot, sir.”
“I certainly hope so.” Jolly sounded unbelieving. Five sacks, did you say?”
“S’right,” the Cockney said. “Full to blinking overflowing, mate. S’long.”
Heavy footsteps followed, and the front door closed. There was silence. Five sacks? What would come in sacks and astonish Jolly? Rollison got out of bed and pulled on a blue dressing-gown, then went to the door and peered out.
Jolly was saying in a baffled voice: There must be a thousand in each.”
A thousand what?
Rollison reached the door of the living-room and saw five postal sacks dumped near the desk. Letters, thought Rollison, startled. Jolly, in his shirt-sleeves, stood and stared gloomily at the sacks.
“Someone’s written to us,” Rollison remarked.
Jolly started and turned round.
“Good morning, sir. I didn’t hear you. Yes, they have indeed.”
“I wonder if these could be letters of encouragement from strangers rooting for Madam Melinska,” mused Rollison. He untied one of the sacks and took out a handful of letters. “London, W.l—London, S.E.7— Guildford, Surrey—Amersham, Bucks— Isleworth, Middx. You try a few, Jolly.” He sat at his desk and slit open the five letters, then unfolded the first; a cheque fell out, for three guineas. The letter read:
“With very best wishes for your success in defending Madam Melinska—a small contribution to the cost of her defence.”
Rollison opened the next letter; it contained a postal order for five shillings. The attached note read:
“In defence of the truth.”
Jolly said: “A cheque for two pounds, sir, from someone who signs himself “Well-Wisher,” and a money order for thirteen shillings and sixpence, with a long letter on writing-paper inscribed with the signs of the Zodiac.”
“Open a few more,” Rollison told him.
Ten minutes later he picked up a pile of cheques and money orders, and made a rough calculation. Jolly watched him intently.
“Fifty-seven in all, and a total not far short of a hundred pounds,” Rollison announced. “And there are at least five thousand.”
“ Ten thousand, I would say, sir.”
“Say two hundred times our hundred pounds,” Rollison said. “Jolly, it can’t be!”
“If the average remains the same, there are twenty thousand pounds in those sacks.” Jolly drew a hand across his forehead and went on in an unsteady voice: “I think I will go and make your tea, sir.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Only The Beginning
“Why, it’s absolutely marvellous!” cried Olivia, as she stared at the enormous piles of letters on Rollison’s desk. Her eyes were radiant, her cheeks glowing. It was half past ten, and she had just arrived. Except for a dozen telephone calls, two abusive, the others from people promising support, there had been no new developments. Rollison was dressed and had breakfasted, Jolly had regained his composure but was a little subdued. “It’s wonderful!” Olivia went on. “Look at them. How much so far?”
“Three hundred and one letters opened, and a total of five hundred and seventeen pounds, ten shillings and sixpence,” answered Rollison. “We shall soon hear remarks about fools and their money.”
“Not from you, I hope,” Olivia said. “These people aren’t fools, they’re simply—well, believers. But Rolly, you and Jolly can’t possibly deal with all of these.” She motioned to the unopened sacks and then opened one which was still three-quarters full. “And it’s only the beginning.”
“Beginning?” echoed Rollison, startled.
“Of course!” Olivia’s eyes danced. “Whenever we have a special competition or a mail-order special, we get a post like this on the first day, but the main post comes in during the next two or three days.”
“Don’t for heaven’s sake tell Jolly,” said Rollison wryly.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Jolly said, coming from the door, “I wondered whether in these circumstances Mr Ebbutt’s men might have a change of heart. Their—ah—wives might have some sympathy with Madam Melinska.”
“But you can’t let a lot of ex-prize-fighters do this kind of work,” protested Olivia. “Rolly—do you know what?”
“What?”
“ The Day is fully equipped to handle this sort of thing. Our record was fifty-three thousand competition entries in one day. We’ve nothing big on at the moment. I’m sure that our Mailing and Receiving Department would be glad to cope.”
“And what a story for The Day,” said Rollison drily.
“Exactly! It would be a sensation. And we wouldn’t charge for opening and sorting everything.” Olivia added ingenuously.
“Telephone your Mailing and Receiving Department, straight away,” said Rollison.
Before he had finished speaking, the telephone was in her hand. As she waited, there was a ring at the door, and Jolly moved towards it. At the same moment the unlisted telephone rang. Olivia talked, Rollison talked, Jolly and an unseen man talked at the door.
Rollison’s caller was Roger Kemp, his solicitor.
“Rolly, I’ve been through all the papers I’ve got, all the reports I’ve heard, and I’ve been through all my contacts at the Yard, and I’ve talked with counsel. Your Madam Melinska hasn’t a chance in a million.”
On the other telephone, Olivia was beaming with delight.
“Not one in a million,” echoed Rollison, his heart dropping.
“She might get a reduced sentence if we plead that she was in a trance and unaware of what she was saying, but we would have to convince a jury that she really does go into these trances and there are a lot of people who simply wouldn’t buy it.”
“ Wonderful!” Olivia was saying, ecstatically.
“And that’s the best you can do?” asked Rollison lugubriously.
Jolly came in, carrying a thick wad of buff-coloured envelopes. Rollison saw but did not recognise them, thought “More letters,” and hea
rd Roger Kemp say:
“You are sure you want to go on with this aren’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“ Yes, send a van,” cried Olivia. “And I’ll come back on it.”
“Up to you,” the solicitor said, “but she could be fooling you. So far the one argument in her favour is that she appears to be nearly penniless. If that were proved to be untrue, then she would get a very stiff sentence for trading on the gullibility of the public and betraying trust. But you know that.”
“How long?”
“I’d guess seven years.”
“ Seven years? echoed Rollison.
Olivia replaced her receiver and came towards Rollison, but at the sight of his expression, the sound of his “Seven years? she stood stock still.
“. . . so be absolutely sure of yourself,” the solicitor said. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Let me arrange a meeting between you, Madam Melinska and counsel.”
“I’ll think about it,” Rollison said. “Thanks, Roger.” He rang off, and looked into Olivia’s troubled eyes. “The law doesn’t share anyone’s faith,” he said. “Like Clay said, she could get seven years.”
“It’ s—impossible!”
“It isn’t, my dear. It’s grimly possible.”
Olivia was silent for a long time; then, suddenly, her face cleared and she gave a bright little laugh.
“It isn’t going to happen—you’re going to save her. Rolly, it’s all arranged, The Day’s sending a van and two men, you and Jolly won’t have to do a thing, and you can get the best counsel in all England with this money. My, what a story this is going to be! You needn’t worry, I know it’s going to be all right!” She flung her arms round him and gave him a hug.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Jolly.
“ More letters?”
“Telegrams, sir.”
Tele—good Lord!”
“Oh, they’ll come by the hundred,” Olivia declared. “I tell you, you’re only just beginning to understand what people think about Madam Melinska. And they’re right, Rolly, you’ll find out!” She hugged him again, and asked in the same breath: “What shall we do with the money? Open a Madam Melinska Defence Account with it?”
Rollison said slowly: “No. Just a Madam Melinska Account.”
“Rolly, she won’t touch the money.”
“That’s good,” said Rollison.
“You still doubt her, don’t you?” Olivia said. “I—what’s that?” She ran to the window and looked out. “It’s the van! I’ll go and let the men in!”
Before Jolly could open the door she reached it and went bounding down the stairs. As she did so, the unlisted telephone bell rang again.
Rollison lifted the receiver.
“It’s the telephone answering service, Mr Rollison,” a girl said. “There are several calls which I really think you ought to make—two to the B.B.C. about appearing on a news programme tonight, and three from Independent Television. I’ve a note of the people concerned, if—”
“Just tell them I’m very sorry,” Rollison said.
“You don’t want to appear on television?”
“Not tonight,” Rollison said. “How are the other calls coming in?”
“We’ve two operators doing nothing else,” the girl said. “And all except a few are wishing you luck.”
“What about the few?”
“Abusive, sir, but nothing to worry about— not everyone believes in Madam Melinska, I’m afraid.” The girl laughed. “You’re sure about the television?”
“Positive,” said Rollison firmly.
He rang off as Olivia and two youths came upstairs for the mailbags. As she went out, shooing the youths before her, she called:
“Rolly, I keep meaning to find out how Lucifer is. Do ring the hospital.”
He had completely forgotten Lucifer Stride.
* * *
“He is doing as well as can be expected, sir.”
“Is he out of danger?”
“No, but every hour improves his chances.”
“Good. Has he had any visitors?”
“The police are at his bedside, sir.”
“Ah, yes. They would be. Thank you.”
* * *
“Is Chief Inspector Clay in, please.”
“One moment, sir—”
“Clay speaking.”
“Rollison here. How are you this morning?”
“Very well, sir, thank you. How are you?”
“Coping with many thousands of gifts for Madam Melinska’s defence.”
“ Thousands? ”
“ Many thousands.”
“Really, sir—they always say there’s one born every minute!”
“Yes. Have the Webbs talked?”
“They haven’t changed their story in any degree at all.”
“Believe them?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“No, I suppose not. Clay.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you talked to Michael Fraser, Edward Jackson and Jane somebody at the Space Age Publishing offices?”
“I have, sir. And they confirm your story.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Rollison drily. “Tell me—do you think they could have tried to run me down? And attacked Lucifer Stride?”
“Not as far as I know, sir. I’ve checked their movements very closely.”
“Could they have murdered Mrs Abbott?”
“The man Jackson admits he was in Mrs Abbott’s flat and that he took away the file on Madam Melinska, but what Fraser and the girl say is correct, then he was back at the office with the file before Mrs Abbott was killed.”
“He was, was he? Going to charge him?”
“No decision has been reached, sir.”
“You’re commendably cautious. Chief Inspector—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you found out whether Madam Melinska has in fact substantial funds?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“If you find that she has, this will be evidence against her, won’t it?”
“ Added evidence, sir.”
“Thank you, Clay, thank you very much; you’re being most helpful.”
“Thank you, sir.”
* * *
“Jolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“ Could anyone have known that we were on the threshold of our fiftieth case?”
“I’ve found no evidence to show that they could, sir. I’ve checked with three of the most attentive newspapers and their files show under forty cases.”
“So no one could have known.”
“They could have guessed, sir.”
“Or “seen”?”
“I suppose it is conceivable, sir.”
* * *
“Richard?”
“Why, hello, Aunt Gloria.”
“It’s nearly lunch-time, and I’ve been expecting you to telephone all the morning.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, Aunt.”
“There is no need for schoolboy sarcasm. I understand from Miss Cordman that a quite remarkable demonstration of public faith has been shown and that eleven thousand pounds have been subscribed for Madam Melinska’s defence. She is deeply touched.”
“It’s a lot of money, Aunt. Do you think she might now be persuaded to say a word in her own defence?”
“Precisely what do you mean, Richard?”
“I’d like her to meet counsel.”
“I do not believe she would refuse, but you must ask her yourself.”
“I’ll do that. How is Miss Lister?”
“The young woman appears to be greatly distressed.”
“I’m not surprised. Aunt Gloria.”
“Yes?”
“I noticed that she was wearing some nice-looking jewellery, a diamond brooch, ear-rings and bracelet.”
“Your powers of observation were always reasonably good, Richard.”
>
“Thank you, Aunt. How are yours?”
“Are you asking me whether the diamonds are real?”
“Yes.”
“They are.”
“Three thousand pounds’ worth of real, would you say?”
“Approximately, yes.”
“Well, well. Thank you very much, Aunt.”
* * *
“Mr Richard Rollison?”
“Speaking?”
“Your call to Bulawayo, Rhodesia, Mr Rollison.”
“Thank you . . . Hallo, Bill. How are you?”
“Very well, old boy. Suspicious of you, though. Why this sudden call from the dear old homeland?”
“A rich banker like you must be used to such calls. Could you do me an unlawful favour?”
“It depends.”
“You’ve doubtless heard of Miss Mona Lister.”
“I have indeed.”
“Is she rich? And have certain fairly substantial sums of money been credited to her account recently? . . . Wait a moment, Bill. I’ve air-mailed you a list of the amounts concerned. If you could check it or have it checked—”
“Quite impossible, old boy. No banker can divulge a client’s private affairs except to the police.”
“I know. But if you return my list with credits she hasn’t received crossed off, and those she has received in all their virgin freshness, I can deduce as necessary, can’t I?”
“Richard, you are a cunning so-and-so.”
“No doubt.”
“I make no promises.”
“Tell me one thing.”
“If it’s not divulging private and confidential information, I will.”
“Have the police asked to see Mona Lister’s account?”
“No. They haven’t asked me not to answer any questions about her, either.”
“Bill, you’re a devious fellow indeed.”
“How like like to recognise like, Rolly! I’ll be in touch.”
“Soon, please. Just as soon as you can. I’ll be very grateful.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Almost The End
For two weeks Rollison waited.
He was not inactive. Letters still came in by the sackful, some enclosing a shilling or two, one a cheque for a hundred guineas, and the total of contributions rose by startling amounts daily. Every newspaper ran the story, and Rollison and Jolly were under almost constant siege.
