Poison For the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘Yes,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Do you know why he should want to do that?’

  ‘No,’ said Katrina, ‘except—’ She paused, but did not look away from him. ‘Except that perhaps some people believe that I will tell Derek where I sometimes go. I will not, of course.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘No,’ said Katrina.

  ‘Well, that’s frank enough,’ said Rollison, ruefully.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I must tell no one, but—I wish that Derek would trust me. I wish—’

  She broke off, and rising with surprising grace walked to the window. She stood there, unmoving, her head thrown back. He studied her, closely. Everything she wore was of good quality and in admirable taste, and she carried herself with a dignity unusual in so young a woman.

  Then she turned, with a swift movement which startled him.

  ‘This is not fair!’ she cried, and her cheeks were flushed, she was not far removed from panic. ‘You should have told me!’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘Derek is coming!’ Her alarm was genuine, she began to look about the flat as if seeking somewhere to hide. ‘I cannot see him now, I tell you I cannot see him!’

  ‘Then open the front door, so that he can walk in, and then slip into that room,’ said Rollison, indicating Jolly’s bedroom door. ‘Derek won’t know you’re here.’

  She went to the front door, to save him the need of getting up; returned, picked up her glass and her cigarette-case, which was lying near it, glanced round swiftly as if to make sure that she had left no other evidence of her presence, and then hurried away. The door closed behind her. Rollison sat back, frowning, listening for Derek’s footsteps.

  Derek was not alone. Voices sounded, and he recognised with a sinking heart that one of them was Lady Gloria’s.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Derek, in surprise, ‘the front door isn’t shut.’

  ‘Come in!’ called Rollison. ‘It was left open for the convenience of callers. Sorry I can’t get up.’ He waved to them as they entered, Old Glory full of concern, Derek startled. ‘I had a minor accident,’ said Rollison, ‘and I’m told I shall be unable to walk with comfort for the next few days. Rather a bother, actually.’

  ‘It will keep you out of mischief at any rate,’ said Lady Gloria, tartly.

  Rollison stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘After all you’ve said and done to get me into mischief!’

  ‘Don’t waste time in talking nonsense,’ said Lady Gloria, examining the bandages at his ankle and his knee. ‘You ought to be in bed. Where is Jolly?’

  ‘Out after the bad men,’ said Rollison.

  ‘His place is here,’ said Old Glory.

  ‘I’d heard of the inconsistency of women,’ marvelled Rollison, ‘but you beat the band! Sit down, help yourselves to drinks, and look as if you’re enjoying life.’

  ‘It is too early for me to have anything,’ said his aunt austerely. ‘Now, what have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘Falling down,’ said Rollison, evasively. ‘It’s not serious, so it doesn’t greatly matter. One way and another I’ve had quite an afternoon,’ he went on, looking at Derek. ‘I wanted your advice on one or two curious pictures which I discovered in the wallet of one of the bad men; but they were taken away from me before you arrived, so that’s out.’

  ‘What are you burbling about?’ demanded Lady Gloria.

  ‘Curious pictures,’ said Rollison. ‘Photographs.’ He fixed a speculative eye on Derek. ‘One was of a three-legged stool,’ he went on blandly, ‘the other of a dancing girl, and the third of a particularly nasty looking idol standing outside some gates. All Siamese work, I imagine.’

  Derek’s interest grew. By the time Rollison had finished, he was staring at him with consternation, and Lady Gloria had the wit to realise that it was not the moment to interrupt.

  Derek said sharply: ‘Who had these pictures?’

  ‘The man we know of as Lorne,’ said Rollison.

  ‘So that’s it!’ exclaimed Derek. ‘I’d no idea, no idea at all!’ There was excitement in his manner, and he contrived to pass it on to the others. ‘That’s what they’re after!’ He paused. ‘Those things are priceless, Rolly. There are two identical sets, each as valuable as the other. One set is still in Bangkok, the second I was entrusted with and managed to get out of the country, in order to save it from the Japs. I was in Siam when war broke out,’ he threw out in explanation.

  He was walking up and down the room now, too agitated to choose his words.

  ‘It isn’t only the value,’ he went on excitedly, ‘although they must be worth – well – fifty thousand pounds each is the absolute minimum. It’s the religious association, there are sects in Siam which look on those things as holy. They are religious relics, handed down over the centuries.’

  He broke off, and went to the telephone.

  Rollison, trying not to show his own increasing excitement exchanged glances with Old Glory, who nodded and then watched Derek. He dialled a number, then waited with growing impatience; at last he asked: ‘Is that the Oriental Museum? … Give me the curator … Morral, Derek Morral, and hurry, please, this is urgent.’

  He was tapping his foot up and down as he waited.

  Rollison whispered: ‘Glory, the front door – could you shut it?’

  Lady Gloria got up at once, realising that Rollison was suddenly afraid that someone else might come in. In fact Rollison was now acutely aware of his carelessness in leaving the front door open without making sure that it was watched. During the conversation someone might have crept in, all sound of movement muffled by the talk in the sitting-room. He wished he could move about, comfortably, and have a look round. His aunt shut the door with a snap.

  ‘That’s more sensible,’ she said.

  ‘Much,’ said Rollison. ‘Thanks.’

  Derek was speaking again.

  ‘Jarman? … Morral here. You have those three packages which I sent to you, haven’t you? … I wonder if you’ll check up? … Yes, I’ll hold on, thanks.’ He stood waiting again, but this time he talked to Rollison and Old Glory. ‘I had them crated, managed to get them to London, and stored them in the vaults at the Oriental Museum. I want to make sure that they go back only to the owners, and things like that are pretty hot, you know.’

  ‘Hot?’ asked Lady Gloria.

  Derek said impatiently: ‘If anyone took a few of the gems with which they’re encrusted, he would have a pretty fair picking. They—’

  He stopped abruptly, and his face went white. It was an odd thing to watch the colour receding, tension replacing impatience. He looked as if someone had struck him a severe blow.

  ‘So that’s what she wanted,’ he said.

  No one could doubt that by ‘she’ he meant Katrina.

  There was a brief, tense pause, and then he exclaimed: ‘It’s damnable! Damnable! Katrina—’

  ‘Now don’t jump to conclusions,’ said Rollison, quietly.

  ‘It is obvious that—’

  ‘Nothing is obvious except that you have some peculiar ideas,’ said Old Glory, in her most forbidding tone.

  Rollison was immediately aware that both he and Old Glory had made a mistake in speaking. Derek closed his lips, and it was almost possible to hear him thinking that he would not say another word about Katrina. Against that, Rollison put the other side of the picture, the advantages which Derek’s statement gave them. Mists of doubt had been cleared away, if Derek were right in thinking that the Siamese relics were concerned, there was no longer any mystery about the motive.

  ‘Hallo,’ Derek said, suddenly. ‘Yes, Jarman … You are quite sure? … Thanks, thanks very much. Will you give special instructions to have them closely watched? … No, no particula
r reason,’ he added, and that sounded lame. ‘A fit of nerves, I’ve had charge of them too long … Yes, very well, thanks. Goodbye.’

  He rang off, and passed a hand slowly over his eyes. When he took it away again they were seen to be glassy with pain.

  Rollison said: ‘So you think there might be an effort to steal them?’

  ‘I have no doubt at all that Lorne wants to find out where they are,’ said Derek, ‘and if he finds out—’

  ‘It will be a simple matter to arrange for the police to take extra precautions at the museum,’ Rollison said.

  ‘Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll be glad if you will.’

  ‘Is it not time that you were relieved of the responsibility for such things?’ demanded Old Glory.

  ‘It’s impossible to evade responsibility,’ said Derek, brusquely. ‘Oh, they’re not really in my care, and the Foreign Office knows all about them, but only one or two men besides myself know what is in the crates and where the crates are stored. There was some talk of shipping them back to Siam in the autumn, but conditions are still unsettled out there.’ He raised his hands helplessly. ‘Well, there it is. Will you tell the police at once?’

  ‘Telephone Scotland Yard for me, and ask Superintendent Grice if he can come here now,’ said Rollison.

  A heavy, thumping sound came from Jolly’s bedroom, followed by a stifled exclamation. Before Rollison could speak again, Derek strode towards the door, and Old Glory half rose in her chair.

  In a moment Derek and Katrina would be face to face.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Shabby Man Again

  Rollison tried to get up, but the pressure on his ankle was too painful. He sank back as Derek flung the door of Jolly’s bedroom open. Rollison could not see what happened, but he heard another exclamation.

  It was not in Katrina’s voice!

  Derek reeled back. He fell heavily, knocked down by a powerful blow. During the confusion which followed – for somehow Old Glory and Rollison became mixed up in it – Rollison caught a glimpse of Derek’s assailant. Without doubt it was the man who had followed Katrina.

  Then the door swung shut with a violent thud followed by the drag of furniture as it was hauled along to act as reinforcement. Derek stumbled to his feet and attempted a renewed attack, but it was a waste of time; the door held.

  ‘Go downstairs!’ cried Rollison. ‘Through the kitchen!’

  Derek stopped hammering at the door, and hurried into the kitchen. The clanging sound of his feet on the iron rungs of the fire-escape floated into the room.

  ‘We’re doing well,’ Rollison said, gloomily.

  ‘You will do serious harm to your leg if you get up again,’ said Old Glory, breathlessly. It was obvious that she was not only badly shaken, but frightened.

  Rollison knew that he would not be able to help even if he got to his feet, and he stared at the door in a growing fever of impatience and anxiety.

  Then there came a ring at the front door bell.

  Old Glory hurried across the room, and Rollison waited tensely; if Jolly had returned, something might be done. When he heard Gloria speak he was even more relieved, however, for Grice answered her.

  At her words of alarm he strode unceremoniously into the flat.

  ‘What on earth’s going on here?’

  Steps on the fire-escape clanked dispiritedly as Derek returned, angry and disappointed. He had seen the man reach the ground, after climbing through the bedroom window, he said savagely. The fellow was off like a flash.

  Between them they forced the door of the bedroom, and Derek was about to enter the room when Rollison called him back.

  ‘I want to see—’ began Derek.

  ‘Lend me a hand,’ said Rollison, and when he was on his feet, with his stick in one hand and supported by Derek on the other side, he said quietly: ‘Katrina was in there.’

  He felt Derek’s fingers press deeply into his arm.

  Then Grice called out: ‘Get a doctor, at once.’

  Lady Gloria went quickly to the telephone.

  So it was like that, thought Rollison, feeling desperately anxious as he hobbled towards the door.

  Katrina was lying back in an easy chair. A tie was bound tightly about her neck, but it fell slack as Grice cut it. Her lips were swollen and her eyes closed. There was a bruise on her arm and another on the side of her face.

  Derek said: ‘She—she isn’t—’

  ‘Of course she’s not dead,’ Grice said, without looking round. ‘Help me to lift her.’ Derek left Rollison unsupported, and hurried forward. Between them they lifted Katrina on to Jolly’s bed, and Grice began artificial respiration. Rollison hobbled to a chair, sat down and felt Katrina’s pulse; though faint, it was beating fairly steadily. He nodded reassuringly to Derek, who stood white-faced, a victim of his own tormented thoughts.

  Gloria came in. ‘The doctor will be here in ten minutes,’ she said.

  ‘Make some strong tea, will you?’ asked Grice.

  Old Glory went off. Derek, his forehead damp with sweat, watched Grice working with steady persistence. It was impossible to tell what progress he was making, although Katrina’s face looked less swollen by the time the doctor arrived. He was a youngish man who immediately took over. He worked only for a few minutes, before saying reassuringly: ‘She’ll be all right. Get her into bed and keep her warm. As soon as she comes round, hot tea or coffee will help her. I don’t think there will be a great deal to worry about.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ snapped Derek.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the doctor, soothingly, ‘there’s no need for anxiety.’

  As he spoke, Katrina opened her eyes.

  It was quiet in the flat and Rollison was half-dozing. He was sitting in an easy chair, with his legs up, and Old Glory was at the bureau, writing, the light from a table lamp shining on her white hair; the faint scratching of her pen was the only sound that broke the silence. In the small bedroom, Derek was sitting by Katrina’s side, and as far as Rollison knew, Katrina was sleeping, the result of a sedative which the doctor had prescribed.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock.

  Grice had listened to what they had to tell him, promised to have a special patrol arranged at the Oriental Museum, and left with the avowed intention of catching Katrina’s assailant before the night was out. Rollison thought that the policeman was too sanguine; he himself had seriously revised his opinion that the man was nervous and uncertain. The fracas at the flat had shown him to be very far from that.

  They had been able to reconstruct much of what had happened. Katrina had told him that the man must have been already hiding in the bedroom when she had gone in, for no one had entered the room by the window. She had been leaning her arms on the window sill, looking out, when he had suddenly attacked her from behind. She had struggled, but the man had quickly overpowered her.

  So, thought Rollison, the man had come to the flat straight from Green Street, probably guessing that Rollison would bring Katrina with him. He had made two deliberate attempts to murder Katrina within three hours. If Derek were right in assuming that Katrina was an associate of thieves who were anxious to find out where the Siamese relics were kept, how could that be reconciled with the attempts to murder her?

  Rollison doubted whether it could be. He was certainly not convinced that Katrina was willingly helping Lorne.

  The situation was bad enough in itself. There was no longer any question of accidents, and Grice was now fully convinced of that.

  Rollison, knowing that he himself would be unable to get about for several days, felt useless and exasperated.

  In spite of the quiet of the flat and Lady Gloria’s steady writing, he found it difficult to think calmly about what had happened. Yet the chain of
events was clear enough. Whoever had put the arsenic in the ice-cream had, almost certainly, intended it for Katrina. That, it seemed, had been the first attempt to murder her. He was troubled because the poisoning had been so widespread, and admitted to himself that it was possible that other intended victims had been at his flat. For the moment, however, that possibility was irrelevant. If he accepted the theory that it had been primarily an attempt to murder Katrina, it was by no means surprising that there had been a further attempt on her life.

  Nor were his own misadventures difficult to explain. From the moment he had taken an interest in Katrina, he had, by reason of his reputation, become a danger to the success of the plot. Locked in the lift by the simple method of switching off the electric current, he had been prevented from finding out who had visited Derek’s flat when he had first gone to see his cousin. The mechanical faults in the lift had probably put the idea in the mind of the man who had trapped him there.

  This man, then, must have been watching Derek’s flat while the intruder was upstairs. Probably the same man, possibly Lorne or the man with the hooked nose, had also been keeping watch when Katrina had gone in that day, followed by her would-be murderer. Immediately Rollison had arrived, the watcher had seen an opportunity to put him out of action.

  Grice had been able to report that the mechanism of the lift had been deliberately damaged. That had been a comparatively simple act for a man with even a rudimentary mechanical knowledge to do. Thus, it was possible to see the way in which the action in the case had developed. At first sight each incident had appeared to be unconnected with any other, but such a theory did not stand up to investigation.

  Lorne’s visit was also in keeping with the general conduct of the men who wanted Katrina dead. Over-confident, he had come to threaten, and received a severe shaking. He had not, however, been allowed to visit Gresham Terrace on his own. Someone else had been outside and, on receiving Lorne’s report, had asked questions and discovered that Lorne’s wallet was missing. The seriousness of losing the photographs had immediately become obvious to this unknown man, for clearly the case turned on the precious relics. To make sure that Rollison did not find this vital clue, the man had made his daring burglary.