by John Creasey
‘Yes?’ asked Rollison.
‘Have you any reason to think that Lady Gloria has been poisoned? I don’t mean whether she might have eaten ice-cream with arsenic in it; I mean, do you think that anyone had or has the deliberate intention of murdering her?’
‘No,’ said Rollison, promptly.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Quite. It’s a remarkable question,’ said Rollison. ‘What prompted you to ask it?’
Miss Page put on her spectacles, hesitated for a moment, and then picked up a pencil and began to scribble meaninglessly on a sheet of blotting paper.
She said at last: ‘I believe that she has received threatening letters, Mr Rollison. Although she refused to take any serious notice of them, I think they did, in fact, worry her.’
Chapter Five
Search for Old Glory
The first letter, it appeared, had been received some months before. It had been mildly threatening in tone, and vague in its wording. Old Glory had opened it when several of her cronies had been in the lounge, read it out, laughed, and thrown it away. Later, others had been delivered, addressed in the same handwriting, and noticeable because the address was always written in red ink. After the first one, Old Glory had always taken them to her room, and several envelopes had been found in her wastepaper basket. Miss Page admitted that she herself had been worried. Twice she had broached the subject to Lady Gloria, but had received only evasive answers.
Rollison listened with increasing anxiety.
‘When did the last letter arrive?’
‘An envelope was discovered about a fortnight ago,’ said Miss Page. ‘Wait just a moment, please.’ She went to the cabinet again, took out another folder and brought it to the desk. There were three envelopes, all crumpled as if they had been screwed up and thrown away and afterwards retrieved and straightened out. The handwriting was the same in each case; it sloped backwards, was small and very easy to read.
The postmark of one was London, W1; of another, London, SW6; and of the third, Reading, Berkshire.
‘And only the envelopes were recovered?’ asked Rollison.
‘Yes. There was never any trace of the letters. It was Lady Gloria’s practice to burn correspondence once she had finished with it, so she probably burned the letters also. Presumably the envelopes seemed unimportant to her. Do they to you, Mr Rollison?’
‘No,’ said Rollison. ‘I should like to take them with me.’
Miss Page looked doubtful.
‘I think I would like to keep one,’ she said, ‘and then if you will give me a receipt, I will let you have the others.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ agreed Rollison.
He left the club soon afterwards, greatly impressed by Miss Page’s efficiency and a little puzzled by it. There was nothing remarkable in keeping the envelopes; but it was surprising to find a record was kept of all visitors, a system which went far beyond the normal club practices. All of these things, however, were subsidiary to the disappearance of Old Glory. He tried to minimise its possible seriousness, but at heart he was deeply worried. He felt, too, a little angry with her; if she had confided in him about the mysterious letters, he would have taken up the matter with great zest, yet, with such a stimulus ready to hand, she had chosen the artificiality of the party.
Why had she kept the letters to herself?
He went to see Grice, and after he had explained fully what had happened at the Marigold Club, Grice put the same question in a different way.
‘Aren’t you surprised that she didn’t tell you anything about these letters, Rolly?’
Rollison said: ‘Yes and no. She might have kept them to herself if she were sure that it was a family matter which she did not want to go any further.’
‘But surely she would have trusted you,’ protested Grice.
‘We’re an odd family,’ said Rollison, ‘and I wouldn’t like to predict what any member of it would do in any given circumstances. Still, normally I should have expected Old Glory to tell me about family pothers. There’s one other possible explanation of her reticence: she might have reasoned that I would think she was deliberately trying to pep me up. I appear to have been a pretty dull dog in recent months.’
Grice said diplomatically: ‘Well, you appear to have snapped out of it now.’
Rollison shrugged. ‘Enough to be interested in hearing what, if anything, you have discovered this morning.’
He already knew that none of the police inquiries at London hospitals had brought any news of Old Glory. Nor was there any fresh news about the victims of the ice-cream poisoning. Certainly there was no indication that anyone was seriously ill as a result of it. The worst sufferer appeared to be Florence Hardy, but she was now on the mend, and would be out of hospital in a few days.
The analyst’s report on the ice-cream had been received, and had been checked against the amount of arsenic which Rollison knew the tube had contained. Only about one tenth of the amount was unaccounted for, and it was reasonable to assume that this had been disposed of in the portions of ice-cream that had been eaten. There was no need to fear that anyone still had the arsenic available for use. Grice again reminded Rollison that his aunt had declared that she had not touched the ice-cream, so there was no reason to believe that she had been taken ill with arsenical poisoning on the way from the flat.
Rollison showed Grice the envelopes, and they took them to Eddie Day, the Yard’s expert on handwriting and forgery. Eddie Day was a plump man with protruding teeth and a Cockney accent, which he tried in vain to subdue. He was a conscientious man, with a genuine love for and pride in his work. He kept one of the envelopes for examination, while they took the other to the fingerprint testing department.
It transpired that there were only faint traces of fingerprints.
‘We won’t get much from them,’ said the melancholy expert, glumly. ‘Still, I’ll try. Like me to take it along to records, Mr Grice?’
‘Later will do,’ said Grice. ‘I’ll have it photographed.’
‘And then I’d like to have it back,’ said Rollison.
‘Why?’ asked Grice.
Rollison grinned. ‘As a souvenir!’
He took the one envelope away with him when he left Scotland Yard a little before one o’clock. He was not feeling hungry, and he decided to pay another call before luncheon. Derek Morral had a flat in Green Street.
He had never visited Derek’s flat before. It was in Number 25a, a tall house in a terrace, somewhat dingy from the outside, but surprisingly bright and airy within. A card in a wall rack, bearing his cousin’s name, indicated that he inhabited Flat Number 6.
There was a lift, with the doors standing open. Rollison stepped in, closed the doors, and pressed the third floor button. Nothing happened. He pressed again, but the mechanism did not work.
With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he pulled at the doors. They would not open.
He stood back, suddenly conscious that it was a very small lift. The only light came through frosted glass windows. He waited for a few moments before trying the doors again; he could not move them. He tried for a third time, exerting all his strength but failing to make any impression. His lips were set in a mirthless smile as he gave it up, and then pressed a first floor button; nothing happened at all.
‘Well, well!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Is it a coincidence, I wonder? Or did I walk into a trap?’ He thought of shouting, but was reluctant to draw attention to himself just yet. It might be some mechanical fault which would right itself or be righted very soon. He tried the doors again, but it was no good, and he began to hum to himself as he sat down on a small, folding seat, fastened to the wall.
Had he been followed here, and had the lift mechanism been interfered with to prevent him from going upstairs? Was he being absurd even to contempl
ate such a possibility?
A harsh ringing sound startled him, and it hardly stopped before he heard footsteps, and a woman’s voice,
‘Oh, bother, the lift’s upstairs.’
‘We can walk,’ said a man.
‘Loaded up like this?’ protested the woman, and he heard her take a step forward. The bell rang again, and sounded very near him. He looked up to the ceiling, and saw that it was a battery set in the lift itself.
There was a brief pause before the man said testily: ‘They’ve left the door open, I expect. It won’t come down. We may as well walk.’
‘I am not going to walk,’ said the woman, petulantly, and the bell rang again. It had hardly stopped before it started off a fourth time, and the woman spoke again. ‘Is someone else ringing?’
‘It sounds like it,’ said the man.
‘The door must be stuck. Darling, do try again. ‘
‘I don’t think that will help,’ called Rollison.
There was a startled silence, and then the man’s voice spoke.
‘Someone’s locked in, the damned thing’s gone wrong again.’ The voice rose. ‘Hallo, there! Can’t you get out?’
‘No,’ said Rollison.
‘Oh, lord,’ said the man, with a certain melancholy relish. ‘Then you’re in for a miserable time, I’m afraid. It jammed yesterday, and it was two hours before we could get it open.’
‘Two hours!’
‘I’m sorry, but there it is,’ said the man. ‘I’ll hop along to the next block, where there’s an attendant who’s a bit of a mechanic. Chin up!’ He lowered his voice. ‘So you’ll have to carry them up,’ he told his wife, ‘or else leave them to me. I’m going to see if I can get this chap out.’
Footsteps rang on the hard floor, and then there was silence.
Rollison shifted uncomfortably.
He was not convinced that his imprisonment had been accidental, although that now seemed a reasonable assumption. He thought gloomily of the discomfort of staying here for any length of time, but was more concerned lest he had been deliberately trapped; the difficulty was to think of a reason for such a trick.
After ten minutes, he heard a woman’s voice. At first he paid it little attention, but when the woman drew nearer, he stiffened, for he thought she said something that sounded like ‘Aunt Gloria’.
Footsteps drew nearer. Rollison listened intently. The woman’s voice was low-pitched, and he thought she spoke with a foreign accent. She did not mention a name again until she was almost opposite the lift. Then she said: ‘But what am I to do, if Derek will behave like this?’
‘Make him see reason,’ said Aunt Gloria, in her familiar deep voice. ‘He isn’t a fool, Katrina—’
‘Glory!’ cried Rollison, his voice filled with equal parts of relief and rage.
The footsteps stopped, and Katrina said in a startled voice: ‘What was that?’
‘Someone called out,’ said Lady Gloria, composedly. ‘I think it was Richard. Did you call, Richard?’ Her voice was very severe, making her sound like Aunt Mattie in a particularly unpleasant mood.
‘Yes, my dear Aunt,’ said Rollison, ironically, ‘I called out. I am locked in the lift. I came here to see Derek, because I thought he might know where you were.’
‘I am here,’ said Lady Gloria with great dignity and reasonableness.
‘So simple,’ said Rollison with studied calm. ‘Then perhaps you will be surprised to learn that the police are searching London for you, and inquiries have been made at all nearby hospitals. Why, my dearest aunt, did you stay away from the club last night?’
‘What do you mean, you’re locked in?’ demanded Lady Gloria sharply, splendidly disregarding what she preferred not to hear. ‘Can’t you get out?’
‘No. A kindly man has gone to find a bit of a mechanic,’ observed Rollison. ‘He said it should not be more than two hours, and I have been here for a quarter-of-an-hour already. Tea through a hosepipe will probably be enough to keep me alive.’
‘Don’t be a silly,’ said Lady Gloria, ‘you can’t stay in here. Do you know how this lift works, Katrina?’
There was silence.
‘Katrina!’ exclaimed Lady Gloria, and then Rollison heard her gasp. There followed a minute of silence in which Rollison waited tensely, until his aunt said: ‘What on earth possessed her to run away like that? I—oh,’ she added, and Rollison could only just hear the last words. ‘That’s why.’
A man’s footsteps sounded in the passage, and stopped abruptly.
Chapter Six
Derek and Old Glory
Rollison could picture the scene. Lady Gloria, angry at Katrina’s sudden departure and already ruffled by the situation, and Derek Morral walking into the hall, a stocky, powerful and good-looking man. Derek had doubtless stopped abruptly at the sight of Lady Gloria, uncertain whether to go back or go on.
‘Derek,’ said Old Glory, ‘can you operate this lift? Your Cousin Richard is shut in there.’
‘Who? Rolly?’ Derek gave a short laugh. ‘That’ll teach him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lady Gloria patiently, ‘but can you open the doors?’
‘I doubt it, if they’re jammed,’ said Derek, and there followed another futile effort to get them open. ‘This has happened three times in a week, those engineers aren’t worth a tinker’s curse. What is Rolly doing here?’
‘Presumably he came to see you,’ said Old Glory, grimly.
Derek gave a hoot of pure amusement, which he curbed abruptly.
‘Are you comfortable, Rolly?’
‘I’m glad someone has a little human understanding,’ said Rollison plaintively. ‘I’m reasonably comfortable, thank you, but you can hardly expect me to be cock-a-hoop.’
‘I don’t think—’ began Derek, and stopped in the middle of a sentence. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, and hurried off. There was a faint click. ‘The light’s not working,’ he declared. ‘It looks as if someone’s switched the current off. Half a mo’.’
He hurried off, and was back within five minutes, pulling at the doors. They opened without any trouble.
‘I expect that’s what happened before but the liftman wouldn’t admit that it had taken him two hours to find out that it was switched off at the main,’ he said. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Long enough to want a drink,’ said Rollison.
‘I can give you one,’ said Derek, hospitably. ‘We may as well go up in the lift, as it’s working now. You’re coming up, Aunt Gloria, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ said Old Glory.
‘Of course you are,’ said Rollison, firmly.
It took a great deal of courage to outstare Lady Gloria; and some time, too. Derek stood aside, watching them, the corners of his mouth twitching. The house was quiet, but a rumble of traffic floated in at the door. Footsteps passed to and fro, and a horse-drawn van lumbered past. During this time, neither Lady Gloria nor Rollison looked away from each other, but at last Lady Gloria said sharply: ‘Very well, Richard.’
‘That’s much better,’ said Rollison, relaxing.
There was only just room for the three of them in the lift, but there was no hitch this time. It stopped at the third floor, and Lady Gloria got out first. Rollison would not have been surprised had she decided to change her mind, and gone down the stairs, but she stood quite still as Derek inserted the key into the flat door. While he was opening it, Old Glory gripped Rollison’s arm tightly, and whispered quickly: ‘Don’t mention his wife.’
Rollison said nothing.
‘What’s that?’ asked Derek.
‘What’s what?’ said Old Glory, innocently.
Derek’s lips were curved a little, as if he not only knew that she had spoken, but also what she had said.
He led the way into a
small hall, the walls of which were covered with trophies of the spear and wild animal skin variety. Derek threw open another door. They stepped into a sitting-room furnished with a surprising variety of carved tables fashioned of exquisite woods; Arabian silver, Chinese lacquer, and rich, very beautiful Oriental carpets, some of which hung from the walls.
The room, however, had a desolate, uncared for air. There was dust on most of the tables, and the ash trays were overflowing.
‘Welcome,’ said Derek, ironically.
‘Thanks,’ said Rollison.
‘Why do you want to see me, Richard?’ demanded Lady Gloria. ‘I have an appointment at two o’clock, and I must not be late for it. I hope you do not intend to take up too much of my time.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Rollison, drily. ‘I want to telephone Scotland Yard and tell them that you are safe, that’s all. May I use it, Derek?’ He indicated a telephone, noticing that there were fingerprints on the dust which covered it.
‘Yes, of course.’
The others were watching him closely as he lifted the receiver, and he got the impression that both were a little apprehensive of what he was about to say. He smiled at them, each in turn, and waited for Grice to come on the line. As he waited, Rollison tried to analyse his own thoughts, and to make a guess at the emotions which the others were feeling. He judged that there was some restraint between them, and that Katrina was the cause. He spent more time watching Derek than Aunt Gloria; he felt that he knew most of what there was to know about her, but he could certainly not say the same of his cousin.
Derek was a curious individual in many ways.
Standing and watching, with a half-smile on his face, he seemed a strong personality, the kind of man whom it was difficult to forget. Yet he, Rollison, had forgotten him. What was it about Derek that made it so difficult to tabulate and assess him? A certain elusiveness, perhaps, an extreme reticence?
‘Hallo, Rolly,’ said Grice, at last.
‘Hallo, old chap,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ve news for you. You can call the bloodhounds off. My Aunt Gloria has surfaced. She’s with me now!’
