by John Creasey
‘I will,’ said Rollison, ‘if you will give me your name and address.’
‘Oh, glad to. Andrew Tippets, hence Tips. Home address, 5 May Street, Oxford. London address, RAF Club, Piccadilly. Got that?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Rollison.
Tips went off, brisk and alert and very self-possessed, while Rollison, deeply intrigued, watched him from the window. Tips looked neither right nor left, as far as he could see, but suddenly for no apparent reason, he crossed the road. It was a foolish thing to do at that moment, for a car was passing: it had to swerve to miss him. Tips did not appear to notice it, but reached the opposite pavement and stood waiting. Rollison opened the window to get a better view, and as he did so another man came in sight. The newcomer was tall and remarkably good-looking, and he had a yellow beard.
Rollison held his breath.
Below him, Tips clenched his right hand, drew it back and then drove it powerfully into the bearded face. Lorne was taken completely by surprise. He fell to the ground, and Tips walked past him without once glancing behind.
Chapter Eight
Lorne
Two or three people in the street saw the incident, and one of them ran after Tips, while two hurried to Lorne, and began to help him up. Tips shouldered his man off and, still without looking round, turned the comer.
Voices floated up, but Rollison could not hear what was said. He closed the window, so that he could not easily be seen, and watched the street. After some time, Lorne managed to persuade his sympathisers that he was not seriously hurt, and presumably he also persuaded them that he was not going to take any action. They seemed disappointed, but let him go his way.
Rollison was halfway down the stairs when he heard footsteps in the front hall and, looking over the bannisters, saw that Lorne was entering the building. Rollison immediately nipped back to the flat and waited for the bell to ring.
Opening the door, after a studied delay, Rollison noted that the damage to Lorne’s face was not as great as he had supposed.
In a mellow, pleasing voice Lorne wished him good evening, obviously unaware that Rollison had witnessed the incident.
‘You are Mr Rollison, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison.
‘My name is Lorne, Cedric Lorne,’ said the other. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’
‘About what?’ asked Rollison.
‘I have just seen Gordon,’ said Lorne, as if that was a complete explanation. He stepped inside, making straight for the sitting-room.
Now that he was face to face with the man, Rollison had a better opportunity to assess him, and he admitted that he liked what he saw. Over six feet tall, the blond beard and hair added to Lorne’s striking appearance. Rollison noted with approval that he carried himself with an air, and his gaze was direct.
‘So you’ve just come from Gordon,’ echoed Rollison.
‘Yes. The fool told me what had happened. Why are you interested in me, Mr Rollison?’
‘Because you were here last night, without an invitation,’ said Rollison.
‘Oh, but I was invited. Mrs Morral invited me.’
‘I don’t think that is true,’ said Rollison gently.
‘Then ask her,’ suggested Lorne. He smiled.
It was then that Rollison conceived an intense dislike for him. He could not have said why; he only knew that in Lorne’s smile there was a hint of smug satisfaction, of over-confidence and perhaps of gloating. The man was quite sure that Katrina would say that she had invited him to the party, and was amused at any suggestion to the contrary.
‘I will do that,’ Rollison said gravely.
‘Good. Now, Mr Rollison, will you tell me the real reason why you are interested in me? Has Morral asked for your help?’ There was the suspicion of a sneer in his voice as he spoke of Derek, and it set the seal on Rollison’s dislike.
‘My cousin—’ Rollison began.
‘Your cousin is a fool,’ said Lorne frankly. Undoubtedly he had decided that he would be wise to maintain the offensive. He gave the impression that his visit was hardly worthwhile, that he was talking to someone who lacked intelligence, and he was a little impatient and anxious to get the interview over. ‘That you probably know. I came to tell you, Mr Rollison, that I cannot brook interference with my business, my private and perfectly legitimate business. If Mrs Morral prefers to work for me, and not for her husband, that is no affair of yours. I hope I’ve made myself clear.’
‘Clear as—er—glass,’ murmured Rollison.
Lorne, sensing something ambiguous in the reply, looked up sharply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Surely that was an admirable illustration,’ said Rollison blandly. He waved a languid hand towards the wall of souvenirs. Lorne said nothing as Rollison lifted from it a crystal ball. ‘Fascinating thing,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Let us see.’ He held the ball close to his eyes, and his expression grew strained, his smile completely disappeared. ‘I can see you walking along a street, not a very crowded street. I can see another man with a very brown face crossing the road. He’s approaching you, he’s getting nearer, he—by George!’ exclaimed Rollison, in dismay. ‘He’s hitting you! You’re falling down!’
Lorne said repressively: ‘I have had enough of this nonsense!’
‘Nonsense?’ echoed Rollison, in a pained voice. ‘But it’s going to happen, I tell you. Hal-lo! Here’s another scene, a very crowded room, and everyone seems to be eating something – I can’t quite see what it is. Oh, yes, ice-cream. Ice-cream! Lashings of it. And behind it a small glass case fixed to the wall, the glass broken—’
‘If you think I broke that case, you’re mistaken,’ said Lorne. His voice was pitched on a high note, and the result seemed less confident. ‘I was not here when—’
‘It happened,’ murmured Rollison. ‘So you know when it happened? Valuable evidence, the police will like to hear about that.’
‘I tell you—’
‘Now look here,’ said Rollison putting out a hand and pressing it against Lorne’s chest, ‘there are times when other people should do the telling, and this is one of them. Sit down, Lorne.’ He pushed, and the astonished Lorne sank heavily into an easy chair. ‘You know, you behave far too foolishly,’ Rollison went on, ‘by under-rating my intelligence, not to mention the intelligence of the police. They will want to know why you came to my flat last night, and what you did with the arsenic.’
‘I tell you—’
‘No, I’m doing the telling,’ said Rollison. He could see the mounting colour on Lorne’s cheeks, and he knew that the man was fast losing his self-control. ‘This isn’t a simple case, Lorne, there are complications, and they affect relatives of mine. I can’t stand by and see that happen, you know. You came here without being invited today, whatever happened last night, and you’ll stay here until the police come and I tell them of your remarkable statements. And of the fact that you employed Gordon to have Derek Morral watched. That was foolish of you. You mustn’t go about London having people followed, you know, it isn’t done. Especially when arsenic has been stolen.’
‘All the damned stuff was found!’ growled Lorne.
‘Someone misinformed you,’ said Rollison, gently. ‘Do sit down.’
Lorne gathered himself for a spring, and when Rollison looked away from him, leapt up from the chair and flung himself bodily forward. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a manner which showed that he was subject to fits of overpowering rage, amounting almost to madness.
As his arm struck out Rollison seized his wrist. It seemed an insignificant counter-thrust, but Lorne went stiff, and did not try to pull his hand away.
‘Wise man,’ said Rollison. ‘That’s a useful hold. One pull, and the wrist breaks. Now tell me, why did you have Derek Morral followed?’
&
nbsp; Lorne growled: ‘That’s my business.’
‘Mine, as it’s in the family,’ said Rollison. ‘Don’t make a fuss, Lorne. It won’t help. You will only get hurt. And it will look odd when I tell the police how you reacted to my polite request for information.’
Lorne drew in his breath sharply, and muttered: ‘He was having me followed, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes. For a good reason. How long have you known Katrina Morral?’
Lorne said: ‘That’s my—’
‘How long?’ snapped Rollison. ‘Did you know her before she came to England?’ He watched the man closely, and although Lorne did not answer, he felt sure that his guess had hit the mark.
He said: ‘I see. The old, old story. And you’re blackmailing her. I don’t like blackmail, Lorne.’
‘You damned fool!’
‘Possibly,’ said Rollison, ‘but we’ll see who is the more foolish. I’ve three things to say to you: One, don’t send for Katrina again. Two: don’t send threatening letters to Lady Gloria Hurst again—’
He paused, delighted, for Lorne’s stupefaction was so evident that Rollison could have laughed aloud.
‘And thirdly, don’t come here again without being invited.’
He stood aside.
Lorne sat where he was for an appreciable time. Rollison watched him warily, not altogether sure he was not gathering strength for another assault. The man had come full of braggadocio, confident that he would find Rollison easy to handle, and the shock of discovering his mistake had been great.
But he got up eventually, his expression giving nothing away, and moved towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped, turned, and seemed about to speak, but he thought better of it, and went out without another word.
Rollison closed the door after him with a smile of pure enjoyment, then he put his hand inside his jacket, and drew out a pigskin wallet. It was slim and new; and twenty minutes before it had been in Lorne’s inside coat pocket. He wondered when Lorne would realise that it had been taken from him when he had made that foolish leap forward.
Rollison took the case to a small table, and emptied it. Several letters fell out. These he placed one by one in front of him; all were addressed to Cedric Lorne, Esquire, at an address in Baker Street. In a second partition were visiting cards with the same address, and a few pound notes which Rollison put together in a bundle. An identity card, an ordinary civilian one, two tickets for the Palladium on the following night, and some stamps were added to the neat array on the table. Next he turned his attention to the third partition which appeared to be filled with photographs.
Rollison took out the first of them, half-expecting to see a photograph of Katrina. Instead, he saw a grotesque looking idol, squatting by the side of some gates. Printed in the bottom left-hand corner were the words: The Holy Gate. The picture was coloured, but not very well. The result was the more garish and grotesque.
There were other, smaller photographs.
Rollison took them out, less surprised now than he would have been a few moments before. One was of a stool with five legs, and it looked as if the legs and the sides were encrusted with jewels. There was nothing printed on this photograph, and nothing written on the back. He looked at the third and last picture: this time it was of a dancing girl, probably Siamese; she was dressed, indeed, weighed down, in an elaborate costume that seemed to be heavily ornamented with precious stones.
Rollison spread the photographs out in front of him, and sat looking at them with deepening interest.
One thing sprang immediately to his mind; though they would be incongruous in many places in London, they would not be surprising in Derek’s flat.
He got up and went to the telephone, dialled Derek’s number and was answered almost immediately.
‘Rolly here,’ said Rollison. ‘Can you come to my flat at once?’
‘Well, I suppose so,’ replied Derek. ‘Have you discovered anything?’ His voice rose a little, betraying his anxiety.
‘I don’t know for certain,’ said Rollison. ‘I think you can help me. It has nothing directly to do with Katrina, but it does concern Lorne.’
‘I’ll come at once.’
Rollison turned away from the telephone and then sat down and studied the pictures more closely. After a while he took out a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and turned to Siam; but there was little in it of interest to him.
The front door bell rang.
‘Why, hallo!’ said Rollison, trying to hide his disappointment, ‘I hardly expected you.’ He was puzzled by the way she stood staring at him, and surprised by the change in her. No one could have called her pretty now. She looked as if she had been crying, and he doubted whether she had slept the previous night. ‘Come in,’ he invited, in a friendly voice.
‘No,’ she said clearly. ‘I want you to come with me.’
‘Come with you?’ repeated Rollison in bewilderment. ‘Where to?’
‘Scotland Yard.’
He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Now don’t start doing foolish things like that,’ he said. ‘Before you go to Scotland Yard about anything, you want to discuss it with Uncle Rolly. Come in and sit down, and let me make you a cup of tea.’
‘I am not coming in,’ declared Mary flatly. ‘I want you to come with me, because it is – your fault.’
‘I’ll come with you if you still want to go after we’ve had a chat,’ said Rollison, taking her arm.
She pulled herself away, swung on her heels, and hurried towards the staircase. He followed her, but was not quick enough to prevent her from starting down the stairs. Near the foot of the first flight, she slipped. Rollison was only a yard behind her, and he shot out a hand to try to save her, but only succeeded in breaking her fall.
‘Confound the girl!’ exclaimed Rollison savagely.
She was not badly hurt, and she was not unconscious, but seemed in a daze, obstinately reiterating that she would not go back to the flat. At last, at the end of his patience, he picked her up and carried her upstairs.
She was heavier than he expected, and he closed the door with his foot, and then carried her into the sitting-room. He turned a large easy chair round with one hand, so that she would not have to sit facing the light, and lowered her into it. She sank back with a sigh that was almost a moan. All the life had been drained out of her, and he began to feel really alarmed. The popular panacea for such ills was a cup of tea, however, and he put on the kettle, then remembered that he had left the contents of Lorne’s wallet spread out on the table.
He did not want her to see the photographs, and had she been her normal self, she would undoubtedly have been puzzled by the way the various oddments were set out. He hurried into the room, half-expecting to find that she had recovered enough to bend over the table and inspect the spoils. But she was still leaning back in the easy chair, and her eyes were closed.
The table was empty.
He stood quite still, staring at it; it was of highly-polished walnut, about knee-high, and stood halfway between Mary’s chair and the window. Not even the empty wallet was there; everything was gone.
Chapter Nine
Report from Jolly
Rollison looked at Mary without speaking, and then turned on his heel and examined the kitchen door. Standing on the fire-escape outside, he saw the scratches on the lock, and guessed that while he had been on the stairs someone had forced their way into the kitchen, made a clean sweep of the stuff on the table, and escaped before he had returned.
The only thing of which he was not certain was Mary’s part in that piece of cool effrontery.
It was possible that she was putting on an act, and that she had come to distract his attention while allowing someone else to break in. He thought it unlikely, however. She had arrived little more than half-an-hour after L
orne had gone, and in that time she could hardly have made herself up to look as lost and forlorn as she did now. It was far more likely that someone had been watching the flat, seen her arrive, and taken the opportunity to break in. Lorne must have discovered his loss almost as soon as he got outside, and planned an immediate counter-thrust.
Ruefully, Rollison made tea.
A strong cup, with plenty of sugar, revived the girl, but not in the way he wanted. She began to whimper, and then to cry. She protested that it was not her fault, that she had believed him when he had said there was only a harmless powder in the tube. After all, it had been a joke, there wasn’t anything wrong in taking the tube, she had intended to return it and to pay for the damage to the case. It was all Rollison’s fault; he had taken little or no notice of her the previous evening, and had been beastly in every way. She wished she had never gone to his horrible party.
The story came out gradually, between tears and sips of tea. She had come because Tips had told her that morning that he had seen her remove the glass tube. She could not understand Tips; he had not been at all sympathetic, but had insisted on going to see Rollison, and that was as good as the police.
There was much that she did not say, and Rollison put his own construction on her story. Piqued because too little notice had been taken of her, Mary had deliberately created a sensation, but the bubble of her notoriety had been pricked when he had held her up to ridicule. Then Tips had turned against her. She had left the party angry and upset, and, when Tips had tackled her that morning, she had seen herself in the guise of a tragedienne. Worry at the possible consequence to those who had taken the arsenic had drained the colour from her face, and she had determined to present herself as an object of pity to Rollison and the police.
