by John Creasey
Rollison had a moment’s respite when the CO, as if to soften his attitude, pushed across a box of cigarettes.
‘Thanks,’ said Rollison and lit one. Then his mind cooled, his manner eased, the tension which had possessed him since he had left the flat faded enough for him to smile with genuine amusement as he went on: ‘The question is, am I more use alive than dead?’
He made the CO gape again and followed up the advantage quickly: ‘For breakfast I had a visit from four incipient murderers and—’ he pushed his arm forward and showed the bruises already darkening on his wrist, turned his head and showed another forming on his right temple. ‘There are some of the results. I didn’t go into this show, it came to me. If you ask me to tell you what it’s about I couldn’t even begin, except that someone thinks I’ve got a black box and won’t believe me when I tell them I haven’t. They won’t respect pressure of work at the office; they’ll weigh in with all they’ve got unless I find a means of coping with them.’
He wanted to shake the CO and it appeared that he had succeeded for the other’s red face grew redder and his bristling white moustache even quivered.
‘Confound you, Rollison, you almost convince me. But—’
Then he broke off.
The expression in his eyes puzzled Rollison, for it merged bewilderment with incredulity. He leaned forward and peered into Rollison’s eyes and then exuded a long, slow breath, before pulling a drawer open at his desk and pushing his hand inside.
‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘It really is. This came for you half an hour ago—I was downstairs when a man brought it in and thought I might as well give it you myself. Amazing!’ he added and drew his hand from the drawer, clutching a small black box, not unlike a jewel case, with edges sealed with brown gummed paper and a small address label stuck in one corner. ‘Is that what you’re talking about?’
Chapter Nine
Grice Is Obliging
Rollison took the box like a man in a dream, eyeing it and then the CO and breathing so softly that his lungs seemed to be compressed. Holding the box in both hands, but without touching the paper edges or the label, he leaned back in his chair and said oddly: ‘Of course it isn’t true. I’m dreaming, you’re dreaming. This isn’t the box.’
‘Well, it came for you,’ said the CO.
‘But—’ began Rollison, and then swallowed hard. ‘This is the most fantastic business I’ve ever struck, sir. Who the devil sent the thing to me here?’ He explained briefly that the quartet of incipient murderers had believed he had the box, that he had known nothing about it but had pretended to hold it and he felt better when the CO nodded as if he fully comprehended.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ the CO demanded.
‘It’s not a bad idea,’said Rollison. ‘On the other hand—’ He eyed the other blankly and was greeted by a scowl.
‘Oh, all right, all right, you don’t want me to see what’s in it. One way and the other it looks as if you’d better get off and finish with the business before you start work again; if you try to do both things you’ll probably fumble ’em both.’ The CO was gruff. ‘Have a word with Bimbleton and ask him to keep things going as well as he can. What about your girls—they’re all right, aren’t they?’
‘They couldn’t be better,’ boasted Rollison. ‘I can manage all right, sir, provided you’ll arrange with Bimbleton to handle anything urgent if I’m not here. I’ll give the girls instructions, too. Thanks a lot, sir.’
‘You’re a damned plausible fellow,’ grumbled the CO. ‘Good luck, Roily, and don’t get yourself hurt—any more,’ he added hastily and smiled as Rollison rubbed his temple and went out.
Rollison clutched the black case tightly as he walked to his office, put it carefully on his desk and rang the bell for the girls. He was brief and just sufficiently apologetic while making it clear that although his temporary absence would be unavoidable, he was quite sure that they would be able to handle whatever transpired without referring too often to Colonel Bimbleton; they assured him in unison that they could and he dictated some letters before there was a tap on the door and Grice entered.
Rollison waved him to a chair and the girl away.
‘I haven’t a lot of time,’ said the Superintendent without preamble. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t send for me just for a chat.’
Rollison, feeling very much better, beamed at him.
‘As a matter of fact, Bill, things have turned up and this and that has happened. You ought to know about most of it but before I go into that will you say “Yes” or “No” if some names I mention mean anything to you?’
Grice nodded, eyeing the Toff suspiciously, saying clearly but without words that he wondered what particular joke the other was about to spring.
‘Thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘Brett, Christian name not known.’
‘I know several Bretts,’ Grice told him.
‘This one is oldish and has recently started on, or is about to start on, a journey with a business mission to America.’
He had not expected to get much reaction from the Superintendent by the mere utterance of names but it seemed to him the best way of making sure that the names meant nothing to the police. Had he expected to create a sensation he could not have been more satisfied for the usually placid policeman started up in his chair then actually jumped to his feet.
‘That Brett!’
‘So I’m told,’ said Rollison mildly. ‘So it rings a bell.’
‘Where the deuce did you get hold of Lancelot Brett’s name?’ demanded Grice more quietly, resuming his chair and giving the impression that he wished he had not revealed such feeling. ‘He can’t be concerned with the Jameson business. What else are you on?’
‘Just the Jameson business.’
Grice ran a hand over his thin brown hair as Rollison continued: ‘Does Brett mean so much?’
‘We-ell,’ said Grice quietly, ‘he’s consulted us several times and to put it bluntly he’s been a confounded nuisance.’ Grice, a man who rarely used epithets, relied on emphasis for effect and obtained it then. ‘He thought at one time that his life was in danger and asked for police protection. We gave it to him. Nothing happened. He pretended that several things did but his statements were at variance with our men’s who were watching him all the time. He pitched one ripe yarn about being pushed off a bridge at Maidenhead. He was under survey when he crossed the bridge and all he did was to walk over it and stand looking down at the Thames for five minutes.’
‘Well, well,’ commented Rollison. ‘A persecution complex.’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered so much in another man,’ said Grice. ‘We would have referred him to a psychiatrist and left it at that. But Brett is an expert in commercial economics; he has one of the clearest business brains in the country. Being a consultant to the Ministry of Supply, we had to nurse him. He left for the States by air three days ago and I haven’t been so relieved to see the back of anyone in my life. Now—’ Grice paused to consider and added with feeling: ‘You’re trying to tell me that he’s mixed up in the Jameson business. Come on, what do you know?’
‘Wait a minute,’ urged Rollison. ‘Brett caused a sensation; let’s see if we can find a little earthquake as a savoury. Peveril—does Peveril mean anything to you?’
Grice pursed his lips.
‘No-o,’ he said.
‘That isn’t convincing,’ said Rollison.
‘I have heard the name,’ said Grice, ‘but I don’t remember in what connection. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it? He reflected for a while and then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t mean anything but I’ve heard it lately.’
‘It could have been in l’affaire Brett,’ suggested the Toff.
‘Or a hundred-and-one other jobs,’ said Grice.
‘All right, please yourself. Lancing?’
‘A town in Sussex,’ said Grice.
‘Now the police are being clever,’ murmured Rollison, ‘and they’re never so unbearable as then. This time it’s a girl named Lancing. I’ve only met her casually,’ he added mendaciously, ‘but she could be connected with Peveril.’ He paused. ‘Nothing clicks? All right, what about Ibbetson?’
‘Ibbetson?’
‘Yes. Don’t you say it well?’
‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Grice, eyeing Rollison warily. ‘You know where the name Ibbetson cropped up as well as I do. He was the man whose car Jameson stole last night—I mean the night before last.’
Rollison put his head on one side thoughtfully.
‘Is that an established fact? Jameson stole? Or is it a police theory because there’s no one else convenient to hang the job on?’
‘It isn’t proved,’ admitted Grice, ‘but I’ve interrogated Jameson and his parents and I’m not particularly satisfied. I’ve found the pub where he had his drinks and the landlord says that he was drunk most of the time—the kind of drinking when a man sets out to make himself blind.’
‘H’m,’ said Rollison. ‘He’d do anything to forget, is that the idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘So Jameson’s story doesn’t stand up,’ murmured Rollison. ‘That’s a pity, I hoped that it would. Did he go back and talk about lost equipment?’
‘He did but there was no evidence that he lost it,’ said Grice. ‘The landlord and two barmaids remember him clearly. He sat in a corner and just drank on steadily, not getting violently drunk but taking enough for the landlord to refuse to serve him after an hour on the second night. What happened there, Rollison, is that young Jameson got an attack of nerves and planned to desert. The actual first steps scared him, so he drank himself into a stupor and the after effects brought temporary insanity. That’s not the medical jargon but you know what I mean.’
Rollison regarded him silently for some seconds and then slowly shook his head.
‘No, it won’t work. There’s more in it than that, whether Jameson is our man or not. Ibbetson, whose car was stolen, is risking charges of attempted murder to get hold of a small black case which your Lancelot Brett lost before he went to America.’ He avoided telling the full story for the time being, preferring to wait until he had given more attention to the girl’s part, and went on: ‘Ibbetson thought I had it, the Lord knows why. He came to the flat and a bit later I’ll show you the mess he made of it. Was it coincidence that Ibbetson was waiting for the Commando to steal his car or was it a put up job? Was the car waiting there, not to be stolen by a madman but to be used for the getaway after a series of deliberate murders?’
‘Ibbetson!’ repeated Grice, almost inarticulately.
‘I’ve given you the bald details,’ said Rollison. ‘And I’ll give you more. When I called at the office yesterday it was simply because the affair intrigued me—I saw the improbabilities of the man taking the particular road he did. You probably think I had stumbled on something earlier but I knew just nothing. Despite my virgin innocence someone unknown not only told Ibbetson that I had the black case but sent it to me. Here it is.’ He put a finger on the case and looked into Grice’s startled eyes, deriving no satisfaction from putting the policeman out of countenance but seeing the complexities of the affair more vividly than he had done before. ‘It was sent to me here by special messenger and my CO took it in and handed it to me, sealed as it’s sealed now. Would you care to open it?’
Grice picked up the case slowly.
The cover was of Moroccan leather, or a good imitation, and had a poor surface for fingerprints except for the sealed paper and the address label. Grice was careful to hold the case without touching the paper, as Rollison had been.
‘Not until I’ve been over it for prints,’ he said. ‘Are you serious? Was it addressed to you here?’
‘It was and it gave me one of the shocks of my life,’ admitted Rollison. ‘On the other hand, it made the CO decide that he could spare me at odd intervals.’ His smile was positively cherubic and most of the effect of his shaking-up at the flat was gone. ‘So hand-in-hand we march, oh Grice, and as always I’m at your service.’
‘When are you going to tell me the full story?’ demanded Grice sceptically. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had anything like all.’
‘You haven’t,’ admitted Rollison frankly. ‘But it’s going to take too much time just now and there should be another bulletin after twelve o’clock. That is zero hour,’ he confided, leaning over the desk and lowering his voice. ‘Ibbetson tells me that he’s going to have the case from me at twelve pip emma or I’m going to die. A forceful man but I don’t take everything he says at its face value.’
Grice glanced at his watch quickly.
‘Twelve o’clock? If you mean that—’
‘Now, hold it,’ protested the Toff. ‘Every half-word I utter this morning you view with scepticism and I’ve done nothing but tell you the truth. That was his threat. He was so sure I had the case that I admitted it and told him it was at the office. I fixed an appointment outside the flat for twelve sharp.’
‘I’ll get it watched at once,’ said Grice, obviously struggling to retain his equanimity and to accept what the Toff told him as gospel truth. ‘How many men do you think you’ll need?’
‘None,’ said Rollison firmly.
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Grice was nearly irritable.
‘None,’ repeated the Toff more firmly. ‘If I judged Ibbetson aright, he’ll know a Yard man by sight and smell and I don’t propose to take chances with him. I’m going to hand him a case. What’s the time? … nearly eleven; then we’ve three-quarters of an hour to get a black case as like that one as two peas, labelled and gummed up in exactly the same way for me to hand over to Ibbetson or his courier. Can do?’
‘Even if I can, the man needs following,’ said Grice.
‘Oh, no. I know at least one place where he lives. We don’t want him followed; we want him to think that he scared me effectively, at least until he’s opened the case.’ Rollison leaned forward and touched Grice’s hand. There was a note of appeal in his voice and there was no doubt at all that he was in dead earnest. ‘Don’t abide by regulations and upset this chance. You know as well as I do that if we do the wrong thing just now we might really get into a mess. If you’d like a metaphor, the case is like a bud just opening and if we pull the stem we’ll never get the full bloom.’
Grice scowled at him.
‘That’s a beautiful picture but—’ He paused, shrugged his shoulders and eyed the case, not Rollison. Rollison’s wrist-watch ticked audibly but, apart from that, there was no sound in the office.
Rollison wondered whether he had tried Grice too far; he knew that, of the men at the Yard, Grice was the only one on whom he could rely to be unorthodox; in consequence, the Toff was more frank with the Superintendent than with any of the others. Until then he had been given no reason to repent his frankness but as he watched the man deliberating he wondered whether Grice would come down heavily with his official foot and insist on watching Rollison and the flat.
Grice looked up at last, his eyes very wide.
‘All right, I’ll see you this far.’
‘Good man,’ said Rollison gratefully. ‘You had me scared; I was already deciding never again to confide in a policeman! What about a replica of that case? Do you think you can manage it?’
‘It’s got to be done,’ said Grice. He stood up, and added: ‘Have you an envelope large enough for this?’ Rollison found one and Grice inserted the case carefully, sealed the envelope and then nodded. ‘I’ll have the new one sent round here, shall I?’
‘Please,’ said Rollison. ‘And thanks again.’
He felt annoyed that he had not thought of handing a dummy case to Ibbetson or Ibbetson’s envoy before; the time was sh
ort and supplies of leather goods were at a low ebb. He even doubted whether Grice would contrive to get approximately what was wanted and although he dictated several letters he kept his eye on the clock. If he travelled by taxi he would want at least fifteen minutes after leaving his desk to reach the flat at noon and at twenty minutes to twelve no one had arrived.
Three minutes later his telephone rang and Grice spoke briskly.
‘It’s waiting for you in the commissionaire’s box, Roily.’
‘Saved by a hair’s breadth,’ said Rollison, with satisfaction, ‘or rescued by the police. Thrilling adventures of an amateur detective, episode nine.’ He dropped facetiousness and added: ‘Bill, you’ll play fair?’
‘I’m leaving it to you this time,’ Grice assured him.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ said Rollison and pushed his chair back, saying to the girl sitting by him: ‘I’ll have to finish that later. If I’m not in this afternoon I’ll telephone a message. Cheerio! And remember the poet’s advice to sweet maids.’
‘Goodbye,’ said the girl faintly.
The commissionaire had the case, wrapped neatly in brown paper, and handed it to Rollison as the latter passed with a smile and a word of thanks. Several taxis were in sight outside the building and he jumped on the running board of the nearest as it slowed down. He was on the crest of a wave of excitement and confidence, enough in itself to warn him to go carefully, but he sat back in the cab and took the brown paper from the dummy case, wondering even then if Grice had contrived to get a duplicate good enough to deceive anyone who knew it by sight. When he saw the brown gummed paper sealing the edges and the white, addressed label, he silently congratulated Grice and then reflected that he needed some plan of campaign.
