by John Creasey
‘You said—’ began Peveril hoarsely.
Rollison dug an elbow sharply into his stomach, making him stop. The AFS man was staring fascinatedly at the gruesome sight and did not notice the byplay.
‘The Yard should know about this at once,’ said Rollison. ‘Peveril, will you try to make sure that no one leaves the house? I’ll send a policeman along as soon as I see one.’
He turned without waiting for an answer and hurried down towards the street. The crisp, cold air was welcome and refreshing. From the downstairs flat he heard a woman speaking urgently, presumably into the telephone, and in the room opposite another woman was sobbing hysterically.
The Toff hurried past and turned towards the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He had gone a hundred yards or more before seeing and beckoning a policeman in uniform who stopped and saluted.
‘Did you want me, sir?’
‘You’re wanted at Number 9, Queen’s Place,’ said Rollison quietly. ‘It’s not nice, constable, in fact, it’s murder. If you’re wise you’ll keep an eye on the occupant of the top flat. I’m going to see Superintendent Grice immediately.’
Without waiting for a response, but silently congratulating the constable on the calm way in which he reacted, the Toff hurried to the nearest telephone kiosk and from it dialled the Yard. He was disappointed, for Grice was out. He made a brief report to another Superintendent – who promised immediate action – and added: ‘I’ve asked a local constable to keep an eye on a man named Peveril who lives at the top of the house. I was going to ask Grice to get a search warrant for his rooms before this happened. This will be a good opportunity but don’t start to build a case against him. He didn’t do it.’
‘Are you sure, Mr. Rollison?’
‘He was with me when the man was killed,’ Rollison assured him and rang off.
He had no regard for Fred and, until the moment of peering over the AFS man’s shoulder, had contemplated the prospect of doing violence to the thick-set man with some eagerness. The sight of the blood-red gash, and the knowledge of Fred’s complete helplessness when he had been killed, gave him an uncomfortable feeling of self-reproach. It was useless to make assumptions but it seemed that Ibbetson was responsible for the murder and he no longer cared whether Grice put out a call for the plump man or not. He had tried hard to find just what was behind the affair before any definite steps were taken but there were limits to the patience of the police and to the risks he dare take.
He took a taxi to Gresham Terrace, pondering on the conversation between Peveril and Ibbetson and his conviction that Peveril had almost certainly expected to be followed. He did not try to solve the problems presented by that tortuous-minded solicitor but considered the man Lancaster, who now loomed as large in the affair as Lancelot Brett.
It was nearly five o’clock when he reached the Terrace.
A smaller Harridge’s van was standing outside and when he approached his flat he heard voices, the deep one of Grice’s sergeant alternating with the suave tones of the quiet-voiced man who had acted so expeditiously and proved that Harridges did indeed provide exemplary service. Entering, Rollison nodded to the salesman who approached with his hands fluttering gently and saying obsequiously: ‘I felt that I should come to make sure that everything was to your satisfaction, sir.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Rollison. ‘A very good job, thanks.’
For the first time the little man was slightly out of countenance, as he said gratefully: ‘I’m glad that you think so, sir. Perhaps I may have the privilege of showing you—’
‘Thanks, no,’ said Rollison, and smiled distantly. ‘I’m sorry. My preoccupations don’t include furniture at the moment but everything looks fine.’ The lounge, in fact, was resplendent with new easy chairs and two settees which looked the acme of comfort; the hour and a half since he had left had seen a miracle performed. ‘I’ll let you know if there’s anything else,’ he added. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, sir,’ echoed the soft voice faintly and the man went towards the door. Standing by it, he cast one surprised and reproachful look over his shoulder, then squared them and went firmly outside.
The heavy features of Grice’s sergeant were turned with stolid curiosity towards the Toff.
‘You do get things done, sir, don’t you?’
‘Get things done?’ ejaculated the Toff bitterly. ‘I vacillate, I hesitate, I start a dozen things and finish none of them. Get things done be damned, I—’ He pulled himself up with a start and shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, all right, it’s simply a matter of opinion. I’m going to have a drink,’ he added firmly. ‘Care to join me?’
‘Thank you, sir, but it’s rather early for me.’
‘It’s far too early for me,’ declared Rollison but went into the dining-alcove, mixed himself a whisky and soda and drank it deeply. Then he lit a cigarette and the action reminded him of the cigarette he had dropped from Peveril’s case. He went through the flat tempestuously, leaving the sergeant staring at him perplexedly and found that the kitchen had been scrupulously tidied. He muttered an imprecation and called: ‘Sergeant, at the double!’
The sergeant obliged but remained bewildered.
‘Who cleared this up? There was a cigarette squashed on the floor and I want it’
‘A cigarette?’ echoed the sergeant.
‘Yes. I trod on it. And I’m not the arch-priest of anti-waste; it must be analysed.’ Opening the kitchen door, Rollison stepped to the iron landing of the back stairs and pulled off the lid of the dustbin.
‘Any luck, sir?’ asked the sergeant anxiously.
‘I do believe there is,’ acknowledged Rollison, his tension easing as he stooped down and retrieved the trodden cigarette which was on the top of a pile of dust and rubble. ‘The gods relent sometimes, even for me. I won’t need you here now,’ he added, after a pause. ‘Take this with fear and trembling to the Yard and get it analysed as soon as you can, will you? It may be just Virginian tobacco mixed with choicest Eastern blends, as we’re always assured on the packets but, whether or no, have copies of the analysis sent to Superintendent Grice and to me.’ He paused and then relaxed with a smile. ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not, sir.’ The sergeant put the cigarette into a small envelope he took from his pocket, looked lingeringly about the flat, picked up his hat and went out after asking whether Mr. Rollison was sure that there was nothing more he could do.
Rollison spent a few minutes contemplating each room. Harridges had left nothing undone and he made a mental note to pay the soft-voiced salesman a visit of congratulation.
‘But not until this is over,’ he added sotto voce and stepped to the telephone, picking up the directory and glancing through the LANs. There were too many Lancasters for him to hope to select the right one and he did not propose to ring each number on the chance of having some luck.
‘If only I knew why Peveril was so sure that I would hand the black case over,’ said Rollison aloud. ‘And why he kept switching his reactions. And why June-Patrushka lied to me.’ He considered the possibility that Peveril had done all the lying, shrugged the thought away and then heard footsteps outside. They were brisk and yet sedate, the familiar approach of Jolly.
Rollison stepped towards the door, listening for an indication that the girl was with him but, when he opened the door, only Jolly was there with a key extended in his hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘Good evening.’
‘Where is she?’ demanded Rollison sharply.
‘I very much regret, sir, that I cannot tell you,’ said Jolly. ‘Allow me.’ He waited with a hand on the door for Rollison to go back into the flat, followed, removed his hat, muffler and coat with a deliberation which set Rollison’s nerves on edge and then eyed his employer frankly. There was little expression on his dyspeptic face but he lifted his hand
s in a gesture of resignation rare in him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but at the last moment she evaded me. I am afraid that it was in some measure my responsibility.’
‘Oh,’ commented Rollison blankly. ‘I’d been relying on a talk with the lady.’ His disappointment was greater than he allowed Jolly to see: ‘When was this?’
‘No more than half an hour ago, sir. As we left the office.’
‘She mixed with the crowd?’
‘Er—yes and no, sir. She did go into the crowd and get separated from me but an oldish gentleman was waiting in a small car for her and she joined him. They went off together and the young lady turned and waved to me.’ The very flatness of Jolly’s tone expressed the degree of his mortification and was enough to make Rollison smile faintly. It was easy to imagine Jolly’s feelings when she had turned and waved, almost certainly mockingly, after he had faithfully kept her company all day.
‘An oldish man and a small car,’ Rollison mused.
‘A distinguished-looking gentleman,’ elaborated Jolly, ‘and the number of the car was FX 21K. I assure you that Miss Lancing appeared so appreciative of your kindness during the day that I felt quite sure that she would return willingly with me. It was not so much a case of me keeping near her, sir, as of her keeping close to me. She was good enough to initiate me into the particular work which we were executing and she expressed her pleasure at my proficiency.’ Jolly took a deep breath. ‘I was completely deceived, I’m afraid.’
‘We both were. What was the work like?’
‘It was simply the sorting of mail,’ Jolly assured him, ‘and she was right in one respect at least, the office is considerably under-staffed. The Commandant went so far as to ask me whether I could spare an hour or two each day to go along and help during busy spells, such as this, but I was, of course, evasive in my answer. And after Miss Lancing’s duplicity my interest in the work is hardly what it was. There is a possibility that she will return there tomorrow, of course,’ he added, without much hope.
‘It could be. Was she known as June Lancing at the office?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘Not as Patrushka?’
‘Patrushka?’ echoed Jolly, puzzled.
‘I won’t go into that again,’ said Rollison hastily. ‘Obviously she wasn’t.’
He explained what Peveril had told him of ‘Patrushka’ and went into considerable detail about the affairs of the day. It was always restful to make reports to Jolly who was a listener in a thousand but who occasionally made comments which were both shrewd and pertinent. Jolly heard him out, interjecting only a congratulatory comment when he mentioned that he had been able to get released from the office and, as he talked, Rollison considered the problems presented in a fresh light, feeling much less jaded than he had.
He finished and then went to mix himself another drink.
Jolly was sitting back in an easy chair when he returned, regarding him thoughtfully. When Rollison invited Jolly to sit down it was not his man’s habit to perch on the edge of the chair and look ill at ease and he did not alter his habit then. His expression was grave and his eyes thoughtful as he said: ‘What conclusions have you reached, sir?’
‘None,’ said Rollison promptly. ‘What are yours?’
‘I haven’t really had time to assimilate everything thoroughly,’ said Jolly slowly, ‘but I am a thousand times more regretful that I allowed the young lady to get away. We need so much to find out how she knew that the case had been sent to you.’
‘We need that more than anything else,’ admitted Rollison. ‘Confound it, she didn’t guess! And no one sent the black case to me just for the sake of me or because they remembered someone who had heard of me. And—’. He paused, his head on one side. ‘Jolly, the Ibbetson connection keeps this affair in line with young Tom Jameson. Apart from Ibbetson, there’s no connection; that’s the prima facie evidence, isn’t it?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ admitted Jolly.
‘But there’s more,’ snapped Rollison, jumping to his feet and striding across the room. ‘There’s much more, Jolly, but I’ve only just seen it. Only the Jamesons, father, mother and son, knew that I was involved in the case even remotely, except the police. Remember that black case was posted last night to the Delivery Agency and all I’d done then was to see Grice and have a chat with him and go to the canal cottage. This morning the whole world knew that I was interested and that the case had been sent to me. Conclusion: the Jamesons gave the information away. No one else could possibly have known on what case I was working—and I wasn’t even working on it then.’
‘I’m not sure that your assumptions are fully justified, sir,’ said Jolly carefully. ‘You may have been seen entering the cottage.’
‘Seen and recognised?’ demanded Rollison. ‘I don’t think it’s likely. And there’s another thing. Young Jameson told me a story that I was inclined to believe but the evidence wouldn’t support it when Grice made inquiries. The story fell down on the lack of corroboration from the landlord and barmaids of a pub near the canal. That lack of corroboration could have been deliberate. Grice did give me the name of the pub,’ he added and broke off, snapping his fingers, and staring at Jolly for inspiration. ‘Confound it, the name was connected with the canal, it—I’ve got it! The Bargee. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘I’m not particularly hungry,’ said Jolly.
‘You can probably get a snack at The Bargee. Hurry down there and get a feel of the place. The men you might see are—’ He gave brief, but sufficient, word pictures of Ibbetson’s two companions – since he had interviewed Ibbetson he did not need a description of the plump man – and added: ‘Go carefully and remember that if Ibbetson sees you he’ll probably connect you with me and that won’t be healthy. Perhaps I’d better send a policeman with you, in case of accidents.’
‘I hope you will not, sir,’ said Jolly emphatically.
‘All right, please yourself and get back as soon as you can.’
‘Will you be staying here, sir?’
‘Of course not. I’m going to see the Jamesons,’ declared the Toff. ‘I’ll beat you to it but we’re going different ways. Grice will probably be here soon, so we’d better hurry or he’ll delay us too long.’
On the crest of a wave of excitement, which he afterwards admitted to be unjustified, Rollison left the flat five minutes after Jolly. A taxi was depositing a fare outside a house nearby and he hailed it immediately. Once inside he saw a closed car turn the corner and glimpsed Grice sitting in the tonneau; two men were in front. Grice’s expression was grim and Rollison raised an eyebrow as he considered the likely import of questions which the Superintendent would have ready for him. The journey to Wembley took a little more than forty minutes, fair going by road and at least equal in time to the same journey by train.
‘Stay here, will you?’ Rollison asked the driver.
The man had pulled up outside a narrow cut which led from the road running alongside the canal to the canal itself. It was dark and only the sidelights of the cab showed, together with the bright gleams of the stars high in a cloudless sky. Although it remained cold, Rollison did not think that it was so piercing as it had been on the two previous evenings; but he walked carefully along the canal bank towards the cottage which, once he was past the advertising hoarding, showed in clear silhouette against the stars. There was no glimmer of light from the cottage and, although he knew that the blackout restrictions made that normal, he could not repress a fear that his quarry was out.
He shone his torch, finding a knocker but no bell. The knocker was a light one of brass and made only a slight sound, hardly enough to arouse anyone inside. There was no response and he tried again. A second period of waiting made him exclaim in annoyance and then he banged heavily on the door with his clenched fist.
At last he heard a movement inside.
Hi
s annoyance faded and he even prepared a smile with which to greet one or the other of the elder Jamesons when a door slammed and he heard a rough oath, followed by footsteps outside the house near the back. He went to the path swiftly and heard a clatter of footsteps, followed by whispered voices. He could not be sure but he thought that one was Ibbetson’s. Unable to see the men, he went closer to the corner of the house and heard their breathing as they approached.
By day he had seen that the only entrance to the garden was from the little gate close to the canal but he was prepared for them to rush over the garden and jump the fence, rather than be orthodox and resort to the path.
Then a torch shone out in front of him.
Its powerful bream broke all the lighting restrictions and bathed him and the side of the house in a bright glow. He blinked against it, backed closer to the house with narrowed eyes, prepared to deal with an assault but knowing that he had been caught at a severe disadvantage.
To counteract it, he shone his own torch.
He caught a glimpse of Ibbetson and two other men, one of them carrying a body over his shoulder; the light was good enough for the Toff to see a pair of shapely legs dangling in front of the man before one of the others fired at him.
Chapter Fourteen
Immersion By Night
The shot missed him and struck a window, the glass breaking and splintering with a loud report. Rollison jumped farther into the garden to get out of the beam of light, reaching for his revolver as he did so. Another shot – obviously the man had a gun fitted with a silencer-came uncomfortably close but by then he had his fingers about his gun and he fired towards the torch. In spite of the odds against him, his aim was better for he struck either his target or the holder’s hand and the torch clattered to the ground and went out. By then he had switched off his own torch and the darkness was intense. He heard a man blundering past him and Ibbetson – it was Ibbetson – snapped in a high-pitched voice: ‘Dump her—dump her in the canal!’
