by John Creasey
That seemed a reasonable summary, thought Rollison. Such a course was characteristic of Mary Henderson.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’ she demanded.
‘I think I’d better tell the police for you,’ said Rollison. ‘If you put the tube behind a vase, and it was stolen from there, you’re not directly to blame because the arsenic got into the ice-cream. If I were you, I’d go home and go to bed.’
Mary responded by bursting into tears.
As he was pacifying her, the front door bell rang. Derek arrived, startled to hear the sound of a woman crying as the door opened. He came in, but stopped abruptly, shooting a suspicious glance towards the sitting-room.
‘Is that Katrina?’ he demanded.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Rollison, helplessly, ‘though, as you can hear, it’s a hysterical female. She—’ He paused, for a way out of the immediate difficulty presented itself. ‘Derek, things have not gone as I expected them to, and I’m not quite ready for you yet. Will you get a cab and take this girl home, and then come back here?’
‘Who is she?’ demanded Derek, doubtfully.
‘A Mary Henderson,’ said Rollison.
The name meant nothing to Derek, who agreed to see her home. Mary went with him, dabbing at her eyes, and Rollison watched them go with considerable relief. Then he returned to the living-room and telephoned Grice.
The Superintendent was out; Inspector Hill said that he might be able to get in touch with him, however, so Rollison rang off. He waited rather moodily either for Derek’s return, or for Grice to telephone. He had been easily outsmarted, and he was genuinely puzzled by the speed with which Lorne had turned the tables. The man had not impressed him as being particularly brilliant or quick-witted, though self-importance had been evident enough, and a taste for petty authority.
Would Lorne himself have thought and acted so quickly?
Rollison thought it more likely that he would have come blustering back to the flat, declaring that he had been robbed and demanding to know where his wallet was; that would have been in character, but the visit through the kitchen door was more likely to be the work of someone else.
The telephone rang at that moment, and he was glad to hear Grice’s voice. He gave a brief resumé of all that had transpired, including the burglary.
Grice seemed sardonically amused by that.
‘You had a nip of the dog that bit you,’ he said, unkindly.
‘Ha! Ha!’ retorted Rollison. ‘You seem to think this affair is nothing but a laughing match.’
‘I am beginning to wonder whether it’s little more than a storm in a teacup,’ said Grice, unexpectedly.
‘Hmm,’ said Rollison, ‘I suppose I should be grateful for that eleventh hour change of attitude. Why did you think the tube was thrown into the ice-cream? For fun?’
‘The tube might have fallen in by accident.’
‘And pigs might fly,’ said Rollison rudely. ‘Do you think that Lorne came here by the same haphazard course?’
‘There isn’t any known connection between Lorne and the ice-cream,’ said Grice, patiently. ‘He was there at Mrs Morral’s invitation, apparently; probably the other man was, too. Morral himself is naturally prejudiced against Lorne, that’s understandable in the circumstances, isn’t it? He had a nerve to come to the party, but it isn’t the first time there has been a troubled marriage, you know.’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison. ‘We’re doing well. Who sent the threatening letters to Old Glory? They did exist, you know, although they’ve been destroyed.’
‘Now look here, Rolly,’ reasoned Grice, ‘you want to get the right perspective on this. Assume that Katrina was having an affair, the mildest affair you like, with Lorne, and that your aunt discovered it. She, being that way inclined, would meddle; and Lorne, being the man he apparently is, would react very sharply. We have been told that the letters were threatening, but we have not been told that they were anonymous. I think your aunt will probably tell you that they were written by Lorne and that she did not tell you because she knew that there was nothing really serious afoot, except so far as Katrina and Derek Morral were concerned.’
‘I see,’ said Rollison, after a long pause. ‘All right, Bill. That’s the official point of view, and who am I to say it’s wrong?’
‘Now don’t take umbrage,’ urged Grice.
‘I’m not taking umbrage,’ said Rollison, with great deliberation. ‘I am just wondering what bug gets into policemen in cases like these. Come and see me when you’ve a sordid murder on your hands, and I will explain carefully how it was all done by accident. Goodbye!’
He had barely put the receiver down when the telephone bell rang again. He expected it to be Grice with a clever retort he had just thought up, but it was Jolly, and there was a note of excitement in his voice.
Rollison knew him so well that he detected it immediately. So he spoke lightly, not wanting to spoil the man’s satisfaction in whatever disclosure he was going to make.
‘Hallo, Jolly. Having a good time?’
‘Reasonably good, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘and I am finding it just a little disconcerting. As instructed, I followed Gordon, who immediately went to a house in Baker Street and there saw the man who was at the flat last night: the bearded man.’
‘By name, Cedric Lorne,’ said Rollison.
‘I’m glad you know him, sir,’ said Jolly, and Rollison could imagine his serious face, and could imagine also the gleam of pleasure in his eyes. ‘Gordon then left, and I followed him back to the office. I am outside now, sir, and Mrs Morral has just gone in.’
‘Katrina!’ exclaimed Rollison.
‘Mrs Katrina Morral,’ said Jolly, with the satisfaction of one who has shot his bolt. ‘What shall I do now, sir?’
‘Wait there,’ said Rollison, ‘I’m coming at once. Follow Mrs Morral if she comes out before I do, but let the others go.’
He rang off, wrote a pencilled note for Derek and pinned it to the front door – it said briefly that he had been called away and would be back that evening – and then hurried outside. There was a taxi at the end of the street, and little more than ten minutes after leaving the flat, he got out of the cab in the Strand. Immediately, he caught sight of Jolly.
‘Has anyone come out?’ he asked, quickly.
‘No one at all,’ said Jolly, ‘but I have been making inquiries, and I believe it is possible to get from that building to the next by the roof. They may have gone out that way.’
‘Well, I’ll go up to the office, and with luck may find them together. You follow Gordon, I’ll look after Katrina.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘I hope—look! There is Mrs Morral.’
Katrina was leaving the building. She walked slowly, with exceptional grace of movement, and she looked up and down, as if making up her mind which way to go. Then she turned towards Trafalgar Square. Rollison watched her closely as she drew level with him on the other side of the road. She was beautiful; there was no doubt about that. He had not studied her closely enough before to realise quite how lovely she was.
He nodded to Jolly, and walked along the pavement, keeping pace with Katrina. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not look where she was going. Now and again she almost cannoned into passers-by. Each time she looked up with a quick, apologetic smile, but immediately she resumed her slow, thoughtful walk.
Rollison looked behind her.
As he had half-expected a man was walking in her wake. It was certainly no surprise to learn that Gordon was still interested in her movements. He watched the man, who kept his eyes on his quarry, looking neither to right nor left. It was evident that this particular inquiry agent could cope with only one thing at a time: and now it was Katrina.
They walked along Whitehall, then turned into Victoria Street; that su
ggested, thought Rollison, that Katrina was going to Derek’s flat. Derek would certainly not be there, which was a pity. His mind was crowded with thoughts, and there was no difficulty in keeping Katrina in sight.
She turned into Green Street, still pensive, and entered No. 25a. Now the shabby man looked about him, but did not appear to notice Rollison; he was intent only on avoiding being seen by Katrina. He slipped into the porch of a next-door house until she disappeared, and then he followed her inside. Rollison followed him. He heard Katrina walking up the stairs, with a slow, measured tread, and he saw the lift doors close; undoubtedly the follower had decided to go up in the lift.
It started moving; it was a good trick to get upstairs first Rollison thought; no one would dream that someone in front of them was following them.
The lift went upwards, whining. Rollison hesitated; and then he decided that he was taking too much for granted. If the man had instructions only to follow Katrina, why had he gone upstairs? He was not a good shadow; getting in front would probably not occur to him, therefore he had some other motive, and probably he had been instructed to go in front of her; he was waiting there to see her.
The lift stopped. Katrina’s footsteps were still just audible.
Rollison ran up the first flight of stairs, swung round the bannisters and hurried up the second. He could see Katrina standing undecidedly at the front door.
The man was standing in the doorway of the opposite flat, and his right hand was hidden.
‘Katrina!’ shouted Rollison, in sudden alarm. ‘Katrina!’
He saw her turn; saw the man take a gun from his pocket. He raced desperately up the stairs, while Katrina stood quite still, bewildered, and the man raised the gun. The only thing which saved Katrina from immediate death was the man’s hesitation. Rollison’s call had alarmed him, he was not certain what to do, and he turned the gun on Rollison.
But Rollison was ready. He flung his cigarette-case towards the gun, then jumped the last few steps and reached the landing. The cigarette-case missed, but the man was now too scared to use his gun. He threw it at Rollison, and rushed to the stairs.
Katrina, hurrying towards Rollison, stumbled. Rollison had to choose between saving her from falling and giving chase, and mechanically he put his arm out to save her. The footsteps on the staircase were loud, but getting fainter.
The only hope of catching him now was by the lift. Rollison put Katrina aside and turned towards it, trying not to make undue haste, afraid of fumbling with the door. He got in, the doors closed, and he pressed the ground floor button. It was the only chance he had of reaching the street and seeing which way his quarry was going, but he did not think he was likely to be in time. The lift was travelling very slowly; all his associations with that lift were unpleasant –
Suddenly, it dropped like a bullet!
One moment it was travelling so slowly that he wished he had got out and walked; the next, his stomach gave a sickening lurch as all control of the lift was removed. He saw one landing pass, almost before he realised where he was; then the lift struck the bottom with a crash which deafened him.
He pitched forward.
Chapter Ten
Rescue Squad
‘Are you all right?’ a voice called. ‘Are you all right? Are you all right?’
‘What?’ mumbled Rollison, dazedly. ‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘All – right,’ echoed Rollison.
He realised that he was huddled on the floor of the lift, cramped and uncomfortable, and with a dull ache in his legs. He could not remember what had happened, but as the voice made the same cry again and again, and other voices joined it, he realised that he had been knocked out, and was only now regaining consciousness. He remembered that sudden, sickening lurch as the lift had dropped, the frightening moment while he had waited for the crash, and then the crash itself.
Well, he was alive; and he could move his hands. He attempted, rather gingerly, to try out the rest of his limbs, but he was jammed too tightly for freedom of movement. The voice, Katrina’s voice, called again: ‘Answer, please! Are you all right?’
‘Er—yes, I think so,’ said Rollison, with as much strength as he could manage.
‘We need a rescue squad to get you out,’ said a man, and raised his voice. ‘Is there much damage inside there?’
Rollison looked about him for the first time, then quavered: ‘Well, yes, there is quite a bit.’ Two or three wooden panels of the lift were split, the roof was broken, and one floorboard was poking up. The frosted glass, oddly enough, was intact. ‘Not that it makes any difference,’ he added, suddenly glum.
‘Are you really all right?’ called Katrina.
‘I think so,’ said Rollison, and then added testily: ‘But this is getting us nowhere. Is that rescue squad coming, do you know?’
‘He’s gone to telephone,’ said several people.
Rollison eased himself away from the wall, and then tested his right foot. It was painful when he put much weight on it, and already the ankle was swollen, but he doubted whether anything was broken. His left foot seemed better, but the knee was weak. He stretched himself to his full height; there were sundry bruises everywhere, but nothing which caused him acute discomfort. Relieved, he sat on the tip-up seat, which was still in working order, exchanging comments with the people outside. Then there was a clatter on the stairs, fresh voices, and that of a man in some authority. Before long, a crowbar was being used on the door, and within a quarter-of-an-hour Rollison was helped, limping, into the hall.
A doctor declared that the right ankle and the left knee were injured, which hardly surprised Rollison, and advised an immediate X-ray. He also made the arrangements, and wanted to send for an ambulance. Rollison protested that a car was good enough and, with Katrina sitting beside him, he was taken to a nursing home and the examination was made.
‘There’s nothing broken, but the ankle is badly wrenched, I strongly advise home and bed,’ the doctor told him.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Rollison, remembering how Mary Henderson had reacted to the same suggestion. He raised an eyebrow at Katrina, who looked at him without expression. ‘I’ll promise to lie on a sofa,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me, Cousin Katrina?’
They were halfway to the flat before Rollison remembered that Derek might be waiting for him there. He looked out of the window of the taxi, but could see no sign of him. Leaning on a borrowed walking stick, he opened the door, and Katrina helped him into the sitting-room.
The journey had been painful. Rollison sank down on the sofa with a sigh of relief. Katrina brought a cushioned footstool and lifted his legs gently.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
Rollison chuckled, and she looked at him in surprise.
‘No joke really,’ he said, ‘but I seem to have been offering tea to people in distress all day. Would you like some? I’m going to have a whisky-and-soda.’
‘I think that is a good idea,’ said Katrina. ‘Where is the whisky?’
‘In the cabinet near the piano,’ said Rollison, and watched her as she moved about the flat.
It was easy to understand that Derek was fascinated by her.: She had such exceptional grace of movement. It was a natural grace, coupled with an odd and almost childlike gravity. In spite of her attentiveness, he did not think that her mind was on what she was doing, and sometimes she looked at him as if she could not see him. She poured out two glasses of whisky and soda, and sat down in the nearest chair.
‘This is really the first time we have met, isn’t it?’ murmured Rollison.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You had very little time to spare for me last evening. I thought you were like the others, although Aunt Gloria assured me that you were not.’
‘You mustn’t take everything that Old Glory tells you as go
spel,’ said Rollison, cheerfully. ‘She is full of the best intentions in the world, but sometimes she makes howling mistakes. However, if you mean that you thought I regarded you with strong disapproval, I did not; indeed, the contrary was the case.’ He took a pull at his drink. ‘Does anything that’s happened today occur to you as remarkable?’ he asked, ‘and for heaven’s sake call me Rolly or Richard, whichever you prefer.’
‘It shall be Richard then,’ Katrina said composedly, ‘and as for remarkable happenings, surely it was remarkable that you were behind me in Green Street when that man appeared there with a gun. And it was remarkable that he did not shoot. It was, I think, also remarkable that no one asked any questions about what had happened when the lift fell down.’
She continued to look at him gravely, and he was oddly affected by her manner and its simple directness. She had obviously learnt English from an excellent tutor.
He had not yet seen her smile.
‘I don’t know about the lift,’ he said. ‘It’s always going wrong, isn’t it? So no one would be very surprised at it going wrong again. As for me being near you at that particular time, I had followed you from Gordon’s office.’
‘Why?’ asked Katrina, without surprise.
‘Because the man who met you at the top of the stairs was also following you,’ said Rollison.
‘I see,’ said Katrina. ‘That was very good of you.’
Rollison took refuge in another drink. Her directness was almost devastating, and he wondered uneasily whether she was playing a part.
‘You seem to take this all very calmly,’ he said at last.
‘How else can I take it?’ asked Katrina, reasonably. ‘I am, of course, frightened part of the time, but I have often been frightened. You see, I have always lived in Poland. I am English, really. My father was English.’
‘Ah,’ said Rollison. ‘Such stories one hears! I thought at least you were a Russian Princess bent on espionage. Tell me, Katrina’ – and this time he was serious – ’do you think that man was there with the intention of shooting you?’
