by John Creasey
The footsteps drew nearer.
Maggie, staring at Rollison, began to move away as if she was going to plead with the men; or else, to push away the chairs and unbolt the door, and so make it easier for them. At least Rollison could make sure that she could be stopped from doing that.
“Honest, Mr. Ar, if it was anyfink else—”
“All right, Bill,” said Rollison, quietly, “I see the point.”
“Will you give me that telephone?” Jolly cried in a shrill voice, “I want to call Scotland Yard.”
Rollison rang off.
Maggie had gone out of the bedroom, now. Rollison moved quickly, picked up the photograph of the man whom Esmeralda knew, and slipped it out of its frame and into his pocket. He picked up the baby, and followed the woman. A man was working at the lock of the door; he hadn’t troubled to press the bell, and was obviously just prepared to get the door open and burst in. There might be two or three men there.
Or – one might be preparing to throw an ‘egg’.
That was the greatest danger. If they opened the door and flung the ‘egg’ inside they could burn the apartment to nothing, but be in no danger themselves.
Maggie looked round at him.
“I don’t think they’ll listen to me,” she said flatly. “I can try, but I think it will be a waste of time.”
“All right, Maggie,” Rollison said, in the same level tone of voice that he had used when speaking to Bill Ebbutt. “Do you know what they’ll do?”
“They’ll probably set fire to the place.”
“Knowing you’re here?”
“I told you before,” the woman said, “you haven’t even begun to know the Doc. If you work for him, this is a risk you take.”
“So it’s a risk you take,” Rollison said, and found himself smiling almost bitterly. “He might at least give you evens.” He turned away from the passage door, as the handle turned; only the bolt held it now, undoubtedly the lock had been picked. He closed the door of the big room, held the baby in one arm, and held Maggie’s wrist with the other. He went to the window, and said: “Open it as wide as you can.”
“But—”
“Open it.”
She hesitated for a moment, then flung the window up. Cold air swept into the room, making the curtains billow, ruffling the blue shawl and making the fluffy wool dance like blue corn in a late summer breeze. Rollison took out his lighter and held it to one of the cushions on the couch near the window, waited until it was flaming and smouldering, and watched the dark smoke drawn out of the window. He leaned out, and shouted: “Fire! Send for the fire service. Fire!”
He saw startled people look up. The smoke was passing over his head, something in the cushion was burning with a most offensive smell. He saw a woman point upwards, and a policeman come running from the corner.
“Fire!” Rollison bellowed. “Fire! We can’t get out, the passage is blazing. Fire, fire, fire!”
The policeman was waving, as if to reassure him, while a man dashed into a nearby shop. To telephone? Rollison drew back, still holding the child. Maggie, in the same statuesque pose, was standing near the window and watching him as if she had never seen anything like him before.
Then there was a roaring noise from the passage; a crash, as if the door had been forced down. Rollison drew his gun from his pocket, and covered this door—but he did not need a gun and he did not need telling what had happened.
The roaring was of burning.
The ‘egg’ had burst, the outer door was down, the fire was a fire in deadly earnest, and the only question was how long it would take to spread in here.
Then, he knew.
He could see the inside of the door blackening already, and the flames ate into it voraciously; in a matter of minutes, every part of the apartment would be afire.
“When you’re up against the Doc,” said Maggie Jeffson, “you just can’t win.”
The sound of a fire engine came loud and clear and urgent, and people were running towards the corner, to see it, while crowds gathered outside the Lancing Hotel. Men were hurrying away from the entrance – probably these were the Doc’s men, who had started this thing.
Rollison leaned out of the window, waving both arms.
“The place won’t last five minutes!” he roared. “Get everyone out! Everyone out!”
He couldn’t be sure whether the policeman heard, but he saw men turn towards the officer and guessed that they were passing on his message. He heard the fierce crackling of the flames outside the room, and an explosive zutt as a panel of the door cracked.
Flame leapt through it, blasting hot.
The fire engine turned the corner.
Rollison saw it pull up outside the hotel, and saw steel helmeted men leap from it and start to uncoil the hoses. The fire escape arrived and the ladder and platform seemed to shoot up towards him. He knew that he was safe and that for the time being he had saved the child. No matter how fierce the flames nor how hot they seemed, they would escape.
Smoke was writhing towards him, thick and evil-smelling, when the fireman arrived atop the turntable.
“Take the baby and help her,” Rollison said, and he seemed almost detached as the fireman took the child, then steadied Maggie. “And there’s an unconscious man inside.”
“We’ll see to him,” a man said.
“I’m all right,” Maggie said, evenly. She gave Rollison that unexpected, half amused smile, then stepped on to the turntable. The roaring from behind was steady and almost deafening, now, and Leo wasn’t likely to live through it, in spite of the fireman’s words.
Then, Maggie staggered.
The fireman was still holding her with one hand, the infant hugged closely to him with the other. Maggie closed her eyes, and swayed backwards. Rollison stretched out and tried to grab her, clutched her dress, and felt it tear in his grasp. The fireman held on desperately, but her dead weight pulled him towards the edge, and with the child in his arms he might lose his balance.
He let go.
Then Maggie Jeffson fell.
There came a scream from below, rising as if in awful terror – then silence, next a thud, then a crowd of horrified people about the crushed body on the pavement.
Rollison stared down, hard-eyed.
“Get a move on, or the place’ll be up like a perishing Guy Fawkes,” the fireman burst out. He was pale, and was obviously keeping his face averted from the ground and from the woman. “What the hell made her do that? If she’d kept her head for another couple of minutes, we’d have been okay.”
The fire roared behind them and tongues of flame leapt out. Leo was lost in the flames, was almost certainly dead by now.
Rollison climbed on to the swaying platform.
Among the men who were on the opposite side of the road, ten minutes later, was Superintendent Grice. There were dozens of police, and more were coming on duty every moment. Three fire engines were pumping water on to adjoining buildings, for it was obvious that there was no hope at all of saving any part of the Lancing Hotel. Rope barricades had been put up at the corner, and the crowd was being thrust slowly back. An ambulance stood by, and the body of Maggie Jeffson was being covered with a white sheet.
An ambulance man held the baby.
By then Rollison had recovered from the overpowering heat upstairs, and was standing near Grice, watching the stretcher bearers and drinking a cup of hot, sweet coffee which had been brought by a café owner round the corner.
Grice called sharply: “Stop a minute.”
He went towards the dead woman, and bent down. A young doctor who had formally pronounced that life was extinct, drew near him.
Rollison watched.
Grice pushed the magnificent auburn hair back from the marble forehead, then let it fall again. H
e spoke in an undertone to the doctor, then signalled to the ambulance men to carry on. It wasn’t until the doors had closed on what was left of the Doc’s loyal servant, that Grice made his way to Rollison.
Grice looked a different man; older, graver, harassed.
“Did you see what I was looking for?” His manner was abrupt.
“I think so. A bullet hole.”
“Did you know?”
“I knew she didn’t faint and I knew she didn’t throw herself off,” Rollison said, “but I don’t know who fired at her. Someone from a window opposite, of course. Possibly they were after me—she moved in front of me just before she started to fall.”
“The cold-blooded swine,” Grice said, and his voice was harsher than Rollison could ever remember. “I knew the Doc was as bad as they come, I knew he was squeezing the East End, I knew he was squeezing out the other fences and setting himself up as a kind of Big Boss, but I thought we could afford to wait for a while. I didn’t think he’d–”
Grice broke off.
He hadn’t dreamed, and no one had dreamed, that the Doc would go to lengths like these; that if he were thwarted he would use fire to kill and to maim the innocent, if only he could get his own revenge.
“I’ll have the building opposite searched,” Grice said, “but I’ll bet it’s far too late.”
He gave orders, and then a Fire Service officer came up, tall, black-haired, glum.
“Can’t be sure yet, but it looks as if two families were trapped,” he said. “We’ve talked to one of the porters and to someone on the third floor. Can’t find anyone else, there wasn’t a big staff.”
Rollison said quickly: “Have you found the telephone operator? A girl named Mary?”
“No, sir. The porter thinks she went up to the fourth floor to warn a deaf woman who couldn’t hear the telephone,” the fire officer said. “Can’t be sure.”
“I’m sure of one thing,” Grice said. “I won’t rest and the Yard won’t rest until we’ve got the swine.” He looked bleakly into Rollison’s eyes. “I know you saved the child, perhaps we wouldn’t have if you’d told us where to come. But if you’d told us, we might have stopped this holocaust.”
Rollison didn’t speak.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Grice demanded, roughly. “What makes you think you’re so all-powerful?”
Rollison rubbed his chin where it was sore from banging it on a rung of the fire escape. He did not smile and did not relax as he said evenly: “I asked you to guard the baby. A nice job you made of it. If you’re handing out blame, get in line yourself.”
He turned and pushed his way through a crowd of firemen, policemen and newspapermen. Two newspapermen recognised him and came hurrying, but he wouldn’t stop, and the look in his eyes and the set of his chin told them that he wasn’t just being difficult. A police sergeant sent an inquiring glance at Grice, asking silently if Rollison was to be stopped; Grice shook his head. Rollison pushed his way towards the corner of the street which led to Birdcage Walk. There was a big crowd here, too, but clear above the hum of talk he heard his own name.
“Mr. Rollison! This way, Mr. Rollison!”
That was Jolly.
Rollison looked across the road and saw Jolly standing by a taxi; bless Jolly, now and always. Rollison skipped between the traffic, most of which was moving very slowly, and climbed into the taxi. Jolly got in beside him, gave the driver the address, and then sat back, his body upright, while Rollison leaned in a corner and closed his eyes, as if he wanted to shut out the picture of ugly things.
Jolly sat without saying a word.
As they turned into the Mall, heading for Clarence House and then St. James’ Street, Rollison opened his eyes.
“Nice welcome home for you, Jolly.”
“That is hardly a matter of concern, sir.”
“No. Ebbutt gone?”
“Yes, sir, and obviously he was acutely distressed. There appears to be no doubt at all that this man who is known as the—ah—the Doc has succeeded in dominating Ebbutt and many others, usually by threatening members of their family. As appears to be the case in this instance, sir. The most disquieting thing is that I do not think we will be able to call upon Ebbutt for any information or any active assistance of any kind. In fact, I think it at least conceivable that Ebbutt will ask you not to continue with the campaign, in case the—ah—Doc stages a kind of reprisal war among those known to be or to have been sympathetic towards you. Ebbutt didn’t exactly put it in that phrase ology—”
“He wouldn’t,” said the Toff, and smiled wryly. “Anyhow, you don’t change. Make that a rule, Jolly. Is the wardrobe in your room still locked?”
“Firmly, sir.”
“That’s something, although it probably isn’t much,” said Rollison. “Well, we won’t be long.” The car turned out of Piccadilly and the second on the left would be Gresham Terrace. “I think you’d better nip back and get the car, Jolly; you can take this cab.”
“I doubt if that will serve any purpose, sir,” Jolly objected reasonably. “The car was parked with several others near the hotel, and I think it was badly damaged. I’ll check if you wish, sir, but—”
They turned the corner.
Rollison didn’t answer, and Jolly saw his expression change into one that was near bewilderment. A black Rolls-Bentley was parked outside 22 Gresham Terrace, and Sir John Wylie and his wife were coming away from the house; obviously they had given up hope of finding anyone in.
The Wylies stood and waited as the taxi drew up; and Rollison saw the despair on Jane Wylie’s strong, handsome face.
Chapter Thirteen
Jolly In Form
“You make yourself invisible and hurry upstairs,” Rollison said to Jolly. “Let’s try to make things seem as normal as we can.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Right,” said Rollison, and pressed his hand against his forehead. The tension at the Lancing Hotel, the choking smoke, and the shock of seeing Maggie Jeffson die, had done little to clear his mind. He saw Jolly look at him with evident concern, but took no notice. The cab drew up outside the house, and Jane Wylie exclaimed:
“There he is!”
“And here I am,” said Rollison, forcing his black mood away. He opened the door while the cab was still moving, and jumped out. “Hallo,” he greeted. “Just in time.”
They looked as if they were shaken by the sight of him.
He didn’t know that his hair had been singed, that his face was blackened with smuts, that his coat was torn and that his eyes held what seemed to be a kind of feverish brightness. At least, their surprise gave him a momentary ascendancy. He took Jane Wylie’s hand and dug a smile out of the depth of his resilience, and said:
“We’ve got the baby back, unhurt.”
Wylie cried: “You have?” and looked delighted beyond words. “Jane—Jane, my dear, it’s all right, the child’s safe.” In his eager reassurance, he was as nearly emotional as Rollison would ever expect him to be. He took his wife’s arm and held her tightly, while she looked into Rollison’s face, her eyes clearing of some of their distress.
“Is that—is that really true?”
“The police are in charge of him now.”
“Yes. If you’d gone to the police in the first place—”
Wylie broke off.
“I know,” said Rollison, quietly. “Believe it or not, I did go. Two Yard men were outside your house at the time of the kidnapping. I don’t know exactly what happened then, but at least all’s well again now.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Wylie said, and then began to mumble and speak in odd phrases again. “Foolish, of course—Jane blamed herself. Bridge party, y’know, and—”
“I don’t think I’ll ever want to play bridge again,” said Jane Wylie. “When
I heard—”
“You probably wouldn’t have been able to stop it,” Rollison said, “don’t start blaming yourself, enough people are doing that already. I heard something about a maid being attacked. Was she badly hurt?”
“Frightened, mostly,” Wylie said, and coughed. “Naturally.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Jane asked, and she freed herself from Wylie’s grasp and put a hand on Rollison’s. “You look dreadful, you ought to go and get some rest. But what on earth happened?” There was intentness as well as bewilderment in her expression. “Why should anyone want—whose is this baby?”
“He’s the child of a couple named Rickett, who seemed to think he was safer with me than with them,” Rollison said quietly. “They’re running away from trouble in the East End.”
“So it isn’t—” Jane Wylie began, and stopped abruptly.
“Tell me, Rollison.” Wylie cut across his wife’s words, and so stopped the ‘yours’ which had so nearly come. He looked mildly embarrassed, and coughed again. “Anything we can do to help? No? Well, be advised—Jane’s quite right. You must rest. Sure there’s nothing we can do?”
“There might be, later.”
“Call on me,” said Wylie, and then corrected himself as he took his wife’s arm. “Us. Goodbye for now.”
Rollison stood and watched them go.
Jolly had paid off the taxi, and was waiting in the flat. Rollison found his feet dragging a little as he went upstairs. The door was ajar. He closed it as he stepped inside, and looked round; nothing had changed in the lounge hall, but there was a significant change in the study. The nails had been taken out of the wall, the odd pieces of case fittings were gone, and the wall was clear and clean. Jolly was in the kitchen, and cutlery was clattering.
Rollison went after him.
Jolly spoke without turning round, for he was at the oven, wearing an apron, and looking so endearingly normal that it was hard to believe that they were in the midst of disaster.
“If you will allow me to make a suggestion, sir, I think you should have a shower and a shave. By that time lunch will be ready. After that, I think you will be well advised to take three aspirins, and go to bed for an hour or so. I am not yet fully cognisant of the situation, but I am quite sure that unless you get some rest you will not be at your best, and it might be disastrous if you were not competent to cope.”
