by John Creasey
“Well—six or seven months.”
They came before your husband returned?” “Oh yes, some time before.”
Rollison lost interest in the “new” people downstairs.
The men who telephoned to say your husband would be late must know where he is,” reasoned Rollison. “Cases of kidnapping in broad daylight are rare, it’s much more likely that someone persuaded him to go with them, and although he may not have gone willingly, he probably went of his own volition. What time did the gas-men come?”
“At ten past four exactly.”
“A gas-man and his mate are among the least noticed people in London,” remarked Rollison. “I suppose you haven’t noticed anyone loitering about the street outside in the last few days?”
“No, no one,” said Barbara, after a moment’s reflection.
“Other people may have noticed them. Have you any idea what they wanted?”
“No,” answered Barbara.
“Sure? Not even a notion?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” The importance of the question struck home to Barbara now. “Bob told me nothing at all until this morning, when—well, I’ve told you——” She broke off, leaning back and half-closing her eyes. “And all I know is, he’s afraid of the police and—and hopes that he’ll have nothing to worry about after Saturday.” Rollison nodded understanding, and she went on: “I can’t imagine why he should be so frightened of the police. I can’t imagine Bob committing a crime, or even thinking of it——”
“Let’s not forget that he had several very rough years, and when a man comes out of the hell that’s Burma jungle, he isn’t going to be quite himself for some time,” said Rollison. “And like a lot of people he may be more nervous of the police than necessary. They’re not so bad, you know. Human beings and all that kind of thing. No malice or vindictiveness. I have known people nearly off their heads with worry, when ten minutes with a detective-sergeant would have set their minds at rest.”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air!” exclaimed Barbara.
“You want something to blow the cobwebs away,” said Rollison.
As he finished speaking, there was a faint sound somewhere in the flat. Barbara hardly noticed it as she studied him. He had brought calm and commonsense to bear on her problem, and she felt soothed and reassured.
When the noise was repeated, she noticed it
Rollison’s smile remained, but a little vertical furrow appeared between his eyes. Barbara opened her lips to speak, but he raised his hand for silence.
“What——” she began huskily.
“Hush,” murmured Rollison. He put his hands on the arm of his chair and stood up, a swift movement. He looked towards the closed door, and when the sound came again.
“What room is next door?” asked Rollison softly.
“The—the kitchen.”
“And a door to the fire-escape is there?”
“Yes.” She caught her breath.
“Is the kitchen door open or closed?” As he asked that, he approached her. “Don’t get worked up. This may be a false alarm—or it may be just the thing to put us right. Is the kitchen door——”
“It’s closed.”
“Good, said Rollison. “I’m going to put the light out. Just stay where you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
He crossed the room and put his hand to the switch; there was a faint click, and the light went out. Barbara stood in the darkness, staring towards the door. She heard it open and thought there was a faint creak as Rollison went out. A second creak was much louder; the kitchen door squeaked, he was opening that. A moment later a window rattled—very loudly.
It kept rattling, as if a high wind were buffeting it, but the window of the sitting-room didn’t move, so it couldn’t be the wind.
CHAPTER FOUR
INTRUDER
INSIDE the flat all was quiet. Rollison stood by the kitchen door, seeing the outline of the window and the starlit sky beyond— and the head and shoulders of a man outside.
He waited only long enough to convince himself that a man was standing on the fire-escape, then closed the door. The key was on the outside; he turned it, and went back to the sitting-room. He could just make out Barbara Allen, standing in front of her chair.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“Ju—just,” she answered unsteadily.
“A man’s trying to get in,” said Rollison in a matter-of-fact voice. “Will you do exactly what I tell you?”
“Yes.”
Then go to your bedroom, undress and get into bed,” said Rollison. “He’s probably come to question you, as the flat’s already been searched. We might find out what he’s after. You’ve several minutes to get ready, I’ve locked the kitchen door. All clear?”
“Yes,” whispered Barbara. She was shivering.
“We might find out what’s behind it all,” Rollison said. “He won’t dream that I’m listening. Which is your bedroom?”
“Opposite this room.” She was calmer now; he’d given her both confidence and hope.
“Good—come on,” said Rollison
He drew to one side as she came towards him, her figure a clear silhouette against the window. She made no fuss, passed him and went through a doorway—he couldn’t see her then. The bedroom door closed. The rattling at the window stopped and after a pause he heard a thud; the man was now in the kitchen.
There was no sound at all from the bedroom.
Rollison backed towards the telephone, groped cautiously, touched the table, pressed close to the wall and squeezed into a recess.
Scratching sounds at the door told him that the intruder was working on the lock. Soon, the kitchen door squeaked open loudly.
The light from a torch flashed on, striking the wall opposite, and was reflected from the glass of one of the small pictures. The intruder lowered it and moved it round slowly. It shone on the telephone, and Rollison, pressing tightly against the wall, prepared to act if he were seen.
The beam of light moved away, missing him, and made a complete circuit of the hall until finally it came to rest on the bedroom door-handle. The circle of fight on the door grew larger, and in the reflection Rollison could just make out the man’s figure. The light grew whiter as the torch drew closer to the wall. Suddenly part of it was hidden by the man’s figure. A short, squat fellow, he moved with great stealth. The shadow of his hands appeared on the door as he changed the torch a florid, ugly-looking creature with powerful shoulders and a thick barrel-like torso.
“Get up,” ordered Rollison.
The man didn’t move.
“Get—up.” Rollison leaned over the bed, bent down and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled him to his feet and gave him a shove against the wall. He came up against it with another thud and nearly fell again. He shot out a hand and clutched the dressing-table for support. The trinkets rattled, a brush fell to the floor.
“I should get back to bed if I were you,” Rollison said to Barbara.
She obeyed; her nightdress was thin and the room cold. She sat down and pulled a blanket round her shoulders, looking first at Rollison and then at the burglar.
“Take off your coat,” Rollison said to the man.
After a short, tense pause, the man did so.
“Throw it on the bed,” ordered Rollison.
Again the man obeyed, and the coat fell on the bed, near Barbara.
“Pick it up, Mrs. Allen, and empty the pockets,” said Rollison, “We’ll see what we can learn about the gentleman.”
He looked into the scared brown eyes of his victim, who moistened his lips again and stood up more comfortably. Barbara began to go through the pockets, but kept looking at the burglar and at Rollison. Oddments piled up on the bed by her side, and Rollison did not speak until every pocket was empty.
A wallet, some letters, a gold watch, a slim gold cigarette-case and a lighter, a piece of billiard-chalk, a green comb, a small ring of keys, a book of stamps and some other o
ddments came to light.
“Now I wonder where you won the gold watch,” said Rollison, with a touch of mockery. “The last crib you cracked, I suppose. What’s all this about diamonds?”
The man didn’t speak.
“I shouldn’t hold out on me, chum,” Rollison said mildly. “The telephone is in the hall, and the police will be here in five minutes if I dial 999. What’s all this about diamonds?”
“Why the hell don’t you ask her?” growled the intruder.
“Because I prefer you to tell me,” said Rollison. Mrs. Allen, pick up that hair-brush and give it to me, will you?” He glanced at the silver hair-brush on the floor and Barbara got off the bed. She looked a comical figure with a blanket clutched round her, one corner trailing on the floor. Instinctively, she looked at herself in the mirror, and felt her hair again.
She picked up the brush.
“Throw it,” said Rollison, and she did so. He caught it deftly by the handle and beat the air with it. “This is almost as good as a cosh,” he mused aloud. “You know what a cosh is, don’t you chum? A shiny sheath of leather filled with lots of lead shot. On the whole I think this will hurt more. Now what were you saying about those diamonds?”
The man glanced at the brush, as if trying to make up his mind whether Rollison meant to use it—and Rollison darted forward and struck him on the top of the head.
“Just to show you that I mean business,” said Rollison. “And if you get really awkward, I’ll try your knife. Think how much trouble and pain you can save by opening your mouth.”
The man darted a swift glance at Barbara.
“She—she’s got them!” he gasped.
“Don’t be silly,” said Barbara, as she sat down again.
“She has!” barked the man.
“She has—she hasn’t—she has—she hasn’t—now there isn’t any more fluff on the puff-ball,” said Rollison, his voice hardening. Mrs Allen, whom are those letters addressed to?”
“Letters?” Barbara was startled.
“Those you took out of his pocket.”
Barbara picked them up; there were three. The man by the wall looked from Rollison to her and back again as she read.
They’re all addressed to—to Harold Blane,” Barbara said quickly.
“Harold Blane,” echoed Rollison. “Harold, I am not fooling. I’m going to hear your story before you leave here if I have to break your bones to make you talk. You came here to get some diamonds which you think Mrs Allen keeps in the flat —what makes you think so?”
“They must be here,” muttered Blane. “They must be !”
“Oh, a case of logic, is it?” asked Rollison. “Some of your boy friends searched the flat this afternoon and found nothing. Others—maybe you were among them—persuaded Bob Allen to take a little ride with you, and you made sure he hadn’t got them on him, so—they must be here. Right?”
“You—you know,” gasped Blane.
“Just a little guess-work, Harold,” said Rollison, and turned to Barbara. “Ever seen this creature before?”
“I—no, no. He wasn’t one of the gas-men.”
“I shouldn’t imagine he’s a gas-man by profession,” murmured Rollison. The question is whether he’s one of the same party or whether there are two parties with the same idea.”
He moved again, and caught the burglar’s chin between the fork of his finger and thumb and banged his head against the wall. The movement startled Barbara almost as much as the victim, it was so swift and violent. And it was followed by a harsh-voiced:
“Are you one of the gas-men’s friends?”
“Yes!” gasped the burglar.
“That looks like the set-up, Mrs. Allen,” Rollison said. “Your husband’s supposed to have some diamonds, and some bad men want them. Simple greed, you see. Have you——”
“I’ve never seen any diamonds!” exclaimed Barbara. “Bob can’t have them!”
“They aren’t on Allen,” Blane said. They weren’t found here this afternoon, so they must——”
Two things are possible,” interrupted Rollison judicially. “Either Allen has hidden them in a safe place, or he never had them.”
“He had them all right!”
“As you’re so sure, where did he get them from?”
“I—I don’t know,” muttered Blane. He drew back, as if frightened of being hurt again. “I don’t know! I was told——”
“Who told you?”
“The Boss!”
“So the Boss told you,” said Rollison, shaking his head. “When in doubt, invent an all-powerful Boss and blame everything on to him, as with Cabinet Ministers. Who told you?”
“It’s true!” gasped Blane. “I’ve told you the truth, the Boss——”
“Who is this gentleman?”
“I don’t know!” Blane’s voice grew hoarse as Rollison took a step towards him, and raised the hair-brush.
“Well, well, isn’t that a remarkable thing,” marvelled Rollison. The Boss gives you orders and sends you out with a knife, and knows everything about Bob Allen and the mysterious diamonds, but you don’t even know the Boss’s name.”
He struck out with the brush.
Blane kicked at his groin, letting fly with all his strength, but Rollison moved again with bewildering speed, grabbed Blane’s ankle and thrust his leg aside. Blane crashed—the loudest crash of all.
“You hurt yourself that time,” said Rollison mildly. “Whichever way you move you’re bound to get hurt—one way more badly than another. Now, Harold!”
He yanked the man to his feet, pushed him into an easy chair, and demanded with deceptive gentleness:
“Who sent you here?”
Blane didn’t answer, but was desperately frightened now. His lips twitched, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Barbara broke across his words with a startled cry, Blane glanced towards the door. Rollison backed swiftly away—and saw another man standing on the threshold, gripping a walking stick in his right hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
CURIOUS BEHAVIOUR
“BOB!” cried Barbara, and jumped from the bed, sending Blane’s possessions flying about the floor. “Bob !”
There was anguish in her cry.
It was understandable, Allen’s face was bruised and scratched, there was an ugly cut on his forehead, and his clothes were torn. Although his eyes were glittering and he held the walking-stick as if it were a weapon, his mouth was wide open, and he breathed laboriously; he must have held his breath to keep silent while coming across the hall.
“Bob!”
“Keep away!” gasped Allen. “Don’t——”
Blane jumped out of his chair.
“Get me out of here!” he rasped. “If you don’t, you know what’s coming to you. Get me out!”
“We’ve different ideas about that,” said Rollison. “You stay where you are. Allen, I’m——”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell what you are,” growled Allen, motioning to Blane. “Get out—I’m not stopping you.”
“Now, Allen!” began Rollison.
“Bob—” Barbara’s voice broke.
Allen glared at his wife and advanced a step into the room, raising the stick threateningly. Blane went towards the door, watching Rollison out of the corner of his eyes. Suddenly he made a dive—for the knife, which was still on the bed. Rollison shot out a hand and pushed him away, then tossed the sheet over the knife.
Blane hesitated, and Allen shouted:
“Get out, you fool!”
“Allen——” began Rollison.
“Shut your mouth !” roared Allen, and when Rollison grabbed at Blane, he struck out with the stick. The carved handle caught Rollison on the shoulder. Barbara cried: “Bob, don’t!” but Allen pushed Rollison aside. Blane paused on the threshold, then turned and disappeared.
The front door slammed.
“Oh, you’re mad!” gasped Barbara. “Bob, you’re crazy!”
Allen tossed the
stick on to the bed, and limped across to the chair. He sank into it. Perspiration beaded his forehead and his eyes looked glassy. The blood on his face had coagulated and was a dark-brown colour except in one place, where it still welled up a bright crimson. He leaned back, resting his head on the top of the chair, but didn’t close his eyes.
He looked at Rollison.
“Bob——” began Barbara.
“For pity’s sake, shut up!” muttered Allen. He winced, and pressed a hand against his stomach. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. As he looked at Rollison, he seemed to sag, and couldn’t meet that unnerving gaze. There was a moment of almost unbearable tension—then Rollison broke it
“Mrs. Allen, get a bowl of water and a towel.”
“But——”
“Please hurry,” said Rollison.
Barbara shot a glance at her husband, who did not look at her, then went out. Rollison stood a few feet in front of Allen, who looked towards the ceiling, wincing every now and again. Rollison kept silent until Allen cried:
“Who the devil are you?”
“A friend of Snub Higginbottom,” said Rollison promptly.
“Snub’s? Did she—send for you?” “For him, but he’s away. She’s had a rough time.”
“She’s had a rough time,” gasped Allen. It was nearly a sneer. “What do you think I’ve had?”
Rollison said slowly:
“You’ve had a beating-up, and from what I can see of things, you asked for it, and you’ve just asked for another.”
Allen said: “Okay, give me one. I can’t stop you.”
Defiance and challenge showed in his eyes, in spite of his plight; no one could question his courage. But Rollison’s manner changed, the pity faded, contempt replaced it
They heard water running in the bath-room; something clattered in the bath, loud enough to make Allen jump. Barbara had dropped the bowl.
“Well?” muttered Allen. “Get your damned questions out.”
“When you let Blane go, you invited another beating-up because he and his friends will come after you again,” said Rollison. “The police——”
“Keep your damned nose out of my business !” shouted Allen. “If you go to the police——”
