by John Creasey
“I didn’t I haven’t time to see him now, Bill, but if he can be at Gresham Terrace—near the Piccadilly corner—by one o’clock, I might find him useful.”
“Call it done,” said Bill. “You know me.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Rollison. “The man who never fails.”
He regretfully refused to go into the Blue Dog and have one, inquired after Bill’s wife, listened patiently to a story about the Salvation Army, and went out, watched by the same two little old men sucking clay pipes.
The taxi was round the corner, in the main road, and it followed him back to the West End.
Rollison parked his car near Blott’s, in Coventry Street, and the girl paid off the taxi and went into the famous restaurant some five minutes after him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRIGHT YOUNG LADY
SHE sat at a table near him, so that he could only see her profile, and was given prompt and eager attention. She wore a bottle-green suit with a long coat, and a wide-brimmed, white hat with the curling brim swept upwards off her face and cherries glistening on the crown. Her hair was golden in colour and, even in the comparative gloom that was Blotts in time of austerity, the lights shone in her hair and her eyes were bright.
A cluster diamond ring sparkled on her engagement finger, a diamond clasp was at the neck of her white blouse. Her gloves and handbag and her shoes were white, and she had most attractive ankles.
Rollison studied the menu.
“If I were you, Mr. Rollison,” murmured the headwaiter, “I would try the game pie to-day.”
“Game pie,” said Rollison, and considered. “Henri, I think you’re right.”
Thank you,” said Henri, whose accent suggested that his name should be spelt Henry. “We haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you here for some little time.”
“I’ve been out of town,” said Rollison. “Henri.”
“Sir?”
“The young lady on my left.”
Henri’s eyes twinkled.
“Yes, Mr. Rollison.”
“How well do you know her?”
“To the best of my knowledge I have never seen her before,” said Henri.
“Oh,” said Rollison, “that’s a pity.”
“It would perhaps be possible for me to tell her that her table has been reserved, it was a mistake to put her there, to ask her if she would object to sharing a table, perhaps?” Henri had known Rollison for a long time.
“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “We mustn’t rush things.”
“You are the judge, Mr. Rollison.”
“You remember, a few years ago, that I left here by the staff door,” said Rollison hopefully.
“You have done so on more than one occasion,” said Henri.
“And shall again, to-day. This is a conspiracy, Henri. I would like you to give me the swiftest possible service, but cause a series of minor mishaps to happen with the young lady. Her soup—or is it hors-d’oeuvres ?—could be spilt, perhaps. She could be brought the wrong entree—or is it roast? I want to be out at least twenty minutes before she’s finished.”
“It shall be done,” said Henri.
From Blott’s to Gresham Terrace was only a three minute drive. Five minutes after he had slipped out of the staff exit of the restaurant, Rollison entered the hall of the Gresham Terrace flat and called: “Jolly !”
Jolly appeared.
“Sports jacket, flannels, brown shoes, pretend I’m going to Lords,” said Rollison. “I’ve got ten minutes.”
“At once, sir!”
Rollison disappeared into the bath-room and took from the cabinet a small box of theatrical make-up. It did not contain everything theatrically necessary, and a star would not have been pleased with the curious assortment of grease-paints, spirit, brushes and accessories—and would have been puzzled by the number of false moustaches and false beards. Rollison eschewed grease-paint, but smeared spirit gum on a small moustache and a Van Dyck beard. As he did this, peering closely into the mirror, Jolly came in. In ten minutes, Rollison was changed; and although no one who knew him well could have been deceived, the beard and moustache made a marked difference to his appearance. He took a pair of black cotton gloves from his wardrobe, tucked them into his pocket and glanced at himself in the mirror.
•Will I do?” he asked Jolly.
That will suit your purpose, I have no doubt, sir.”
“Good! I’m leaving the car in Leicester Square, fetch it for me in twenty minutes or so.”
“Very good, sir. May I inquire——”
The young woman who telephoned at four o’clock last night has been following me about all the morning,” said Rollison. “I am now going to follow her. Any word from Mr. Wardle?”
“He will be happy to meet you at the Aeolian Hall at 5 o’clock this evening, sir.”
“Good,” said Rollison, and went out
Rollison sat in the taxi, near Blott’s, and watched the restaurant door. There was a possibility that the girl had already left; there was no way of telling without going into the restaurant, and he did not want to do that So he smoked a cigarette and chatted with Perky Lowe. Perky, who had helped him before, was a short man with a huge, turnip-shaped head, on the back of which he wore a green cap, as a kind of halo. His eyes were merry and his manner bright He had a snub nose and discoloured teeth, and smoked continually.
“How’s business, Perky?” asked Rollison.
“Pretty good, considering,” said Perky. “Cor strike a light, I never thought I’d see the day when torfs argued wiv each other for the priv’ledge of riding in my cab !”
“It’s a nice change for you,” said Rollison.
“Gets a laugh out of it, I do,” said Perky. “People ain’t arf perlite, too, and they don’t tip thruppence no more. They crosses me palm wiv silver, as if I was a ruddy fortune-teller. Know where we’re going,” Mr. Ar?”
“I may send you off on your own a bit later on,” said Rollison.
“Well, I won’t get lorst,” said Perky with a vast grin. “An’ I’ve got me spanner.”
He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of London and it was his boast that he knew the name and position of every road, street, mews, square and block of buildings in the City, West End and near suburbs.
Rollison had given his instructions when the girl came out of Blotts and stood looking up and down, obviously not pleased with herself.
There she is,” said Rollison. “Don’t lose her.”
“Bit of an eyeful,” approved Perky.
The girl turned left and walked along Coventry Street, and the driver moved off as soon as she had gone a dozen yards. She kept looking round, as if hoping to find a free taxi, and actually put her hand up as Rollison’s passed. Perky backed into Wardour Street and then invented a little trouble with his engine. The girl walked past, still hailing taxis; opposite the Warner Theatre, she was lucky.
“Now we can move,” said Rollison.
“Okay!” breathed Perky.
His was a newish cab; the girl’s an old one which made a circuit of Leicester Square and then returned along Coventry Street and went along Piccadilly. Near New Bond Street, it turned right, took another turning and then swung into a narrow cul-de-sac. Rollison’s taxi went past
“Dead end, sir,” said Perky. “Lilley Mews, this is,”
“Stay as near as you can, will you?” asked Rollison.
He got out and walked briskly towards the mews. The girl had paid off her taxi and it was swinging round. She disappeared into the doorway of a dingy-looking building. In fact, all the buildings here were dingy, except a garage which had a bright coat of green paint. There were several lock-up garages, but other buildings—which had once been stables—had been turned into flats or houses.
Rollison went first to the garage, but luckily no one came to attend him. He stepped from the garage to the doorway through which the girl had disappeared. On a small plate fastened to the door were the names: Miss Pauline Dexter�
�� Flat 1. Mr. Oliver Merino—Flat 2.
The door stood ajar.
Rollison pushed it open and looked into a narrow passage. Facing the door was a short flight of stairs and at the top of that, a freshly painted red door on which was the white numeral, 1. The stairs went higher, with iron railings protecting them; the door of Flat 2 was immediately above that of Flat 1.
He examined the lock of the lower flat, smiled because the tenant doubtless thought it was burglar-proof, then left the building and went back to the garage. A small man with long, greasy hair and long, blackened nails and dirty overalls came out and looked at him with disfavour. Rollison asked if there was a garage available for the night The garage-hand said no, there wasn’t, and didn’t add that he was sorry. Rollison asked if he could recommend a garage and the garage-hand said no, he couldn’t, and did not appear to be upset about that Rollison said it was a pity, and a pound note appeared in his right hand. The other pushed his fingers through his hair, to get it out of his eyes, and said:
“Wait a minute, I might be able to fix sunning.”
He returned after five minutes and said that Number 5 was empty for three nights, only for three nights, but number 9 might be empty after that. Thirty shillings a week and they were lock-ups. Rollison added thirty shillings to the pound which had already changed hands, and inspected garage number 5. It was spacious and empty, except for an old tyre and one or two dented cans, but what interested Rollison was the fact that it had a small window, about head-high, fitted with plain glass. From the window he could see the doorway through which the girl had gone.
“Yes,” he said, “this will do nicely.”
“Ain’t a better in London,” said the garage-hand. He handed over a bent key, and disappeared.
Rollison turned away, just as the girl came out of the doorway into which she had disappeared.
With her was a tall man of striking appearance, who—and Rollison’s eyes crinkled in a smile at the sight—had a fine, neatly trimmed, black beard. He was massive, had a prominent nose, a fine, full mouth and square chin, and he walked with easy grace. He was dressed in a light brown suit of American cut, and wore a wide-brimmed, beige-coloured felt hat—a Stetson, no less. The girl talked to him briskly as they walked towards one of the garages, and the man opened the door with a key. Rollison strained his ears to catch what she said, but succeeded only in hearing odd snatches.
They went into the garage, which was two removed from number 5; car doors slammed, an engine purred, and a minute later a luxurious cream Chrysler nosed into the mews. There was just room for the car to turn; the driver, the man, judged it to a nicety.
Rollison walked after the car rapidly. It was held up at the end of the mews by passing traffic, and Rollison reached Perky’s cab before it had gone far.
“I’m not coming with you,” said Rollison. “Follow that Chrysler, and let me know where it goes. Don’t fall down on the job, Perky.”
“What, me?” said Perky. “You be careful, Mr. Ar!” He grinned and drove off.
Rollison remembered that cheery grin and the warning, an echo of Jolly’s. And he was about to take a risk which nothing could fully justify. He went back to the mews, where the garage remained deserted, and walked boldly to number 7. He did not know which flat the couple had come from; he did not even know whether anyone else was in the flats. So he rang the bell at number L There was no answer. He tried again without getting a response, then went upstairs. He opened the letter-box and listened, but heard nothing.
He put on the gloves and then took a knife from his pocket.
It was, in many ways, a remarkable knife, and he had taken it from a remarkable young man who, over a period of years, had cracked crib after crib and remained free of the police. The young man had eventually slipped up and was now languishing on the Isle of Wight, in a prison in a forest. His knife had better fortune. Among its blades there was a long one of flexible steel. Rollison pushed the blade between the door and the lock. The steel, coming up against the barrel of the lock, crept slowly round it and, when the pressure was as strong beyond the barrel as it was on Rollison’s side, the lock clicked back. It moved easily, as if it had been recently oiled.
Rollison pushed open the door.
He entered an L-shaped passage, off which five doors led. Two were ajar, three closed. He closed the front door and stood quite still, listening for the slightest sound. It was usually possible to tell whether a room or a flat was occupied—something one sensed without seeing or hearing anything clearly. Nothing suggested that anyone was here. He looked into the rooms where the doors were ajar and found that one was a bath-room and the other the kitchen. On the draining-board were some cups and saucers, plates and dirty knives and forks.
He tried the nearest of the closed doors. This led into a small, luxuriously furnished bedroom with a colour-scheme of primrose and green; a woman’s room. The furniture was of bleached oak, and everything had a touch of opulence, contrasting oddly with the dingy exterior of the house.
There were some modern pictures on the walls, and he glanced at the nearest—and widened his eyes when Rollison saw the unmistakable art and signature of Picasso; the owner was a man who spent prodigiously on art. He left the room and tried the next, made sure that no one was in there, and looked into the third. This was the largest of them all, and ran the whole length of the house. There were windows at each end, and the room itself was a drawing-room which would have graced many a country house. The touch of luxury was very evident here; also the thick pile of the beige and red carpet, the soft silken cushions of the same colour, the Bergfere suite, the walnut grand piano. The pictures here were water-colours—not particularly modern. There was a Birket Foster, a Wimperis and several others by artists of repute.
On a small table between two chairs were liqueur glasses and on an ash-tray near them, several cigarette-ends. Two were plain, two were red-tipped. -So the man—presumably Oliver Merino—and the girl, had sat here. Rollison touched one of the ends, which was quite cold although damp, but another, burned right down after it had been put into the tray, was slightly warm, and there was a faint smell of tobacco smoke.
They had been here not many minutes ago.
“Sorry, Jolly,” said Rollison aloud, and walked across to a fine walnut escritoire, with beautifully carved legs and edges. He pulled at the drawers; every one was locked. He took out the knife again, selected a “blade” which was in fact a skeleton key, and very soon the drawers were open. Each drawer was neat and tidy; in one were account-books, in another, files of letters, in a third, pens, pencils and stationery. He looked through the account-books which told him little except that there were few accounts noted there, but the few were all large ones. They were curiously kept, too. Instead of having the name and address of the “customer”, each page was headed by letters and numerals. A—A-l—A-2 and so on. Some of the totals of the accounts ran into five figures, none was less than four figures.
He glanced through the letters.
All were addressed to Merino—except a few, which began: “Dear Oliver” The signatures were usually full, not just Christian names. Most of the letters came from abroad—there were several from Paris and New York, some were from Johannesburg, two came from Buenos Aires, one from Lahore, another from Rangoon. The Rangoon letter particularly interested Rollison, simply because it came from Burma. It was brief and to the point:
“Dear Mr. Oliver,
The goods have been despatched by air mail and should reach you about the same time as this. I have no further information about the other matter—I do not think you will get further information from here, they have moved to London all right.
Yours sincerely,
Maurice Fenton.”
And in a circle drawn at the corner of the letter was the cipher: B-2.
Rollison looked at the page in the account-book under that heading—and his lips rounded in an “O” of astonishment. It was the largest account he had yet seen, and ran into t
he three hundred thousands. There were thirteen entries, the lowest a total of £11,350. Here and there a single word, such as “rubies” or “pearls”, suggested that some of the merchandise was jewels.
He replaced the letters and the books and then, with the help of his skeleton key, re-locked the drawers. That done, he looked about the room, wondering where the safe was kept. A wall-safe? Or one let into the floor? Certainly there was no piece of furniture which looked as if it concealed a safe.
He moved the pictures aside, one after the other and when he looked behind the Birket Foster, he found what he sought Here was a wall-safe, an ordinary combination type with a small knob in the middle of the circular piece of shiny steel. He touched the knob gingerly with his finger—and snatched it away as pain shot through his hand. The safe was electrically controlled—and alive. He rubbed his finger and waked until the stinging sensation had gone, then turned away. If Merino thought the safe worth such protection, it probably contained something very valuable—perhaps the explanation of the big figures in the account-books.
He thought much about Blane and his talk of diamonds. He went into the kitchen and searched under the sink and in the larder for the electric meter and main switch; he found none. Nor were they in the hall or in the bath-room. He went into the dining-room and bedroom, and could not find what he wanted. He had seen nothing which might conceal a meter in the drawing-room either, but there must be a meter. It might be somewhere outside. There was no back entrance.
He did not find what he wanted on the narrow landing or anywhere on the stairs.
He returned to Merino’s flat, and as he closed the door, he murmured aloud:
“That’s very odd—eh, Jolly?” He smiled when he thought of Jolly’s reaction to such an impasse as this, then put the thought out of his mind. In the drawing-room, he thought he heard a slight sound and stood still, looking at the windows, seeing garage doors and the drab cobblestones in the roadway. The sound wasn’t repeated, it had probably come from outside. He went to the safe again, then tried to trace the electric wiring from that—it might be connected to the mains hidden in the wall; whoever owned this flat would not like to see the untidy contraptions of meter and fuse box in the open. But the wiring was chased, the channel was plastered and painted over.
