Poison For the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘Over the side,’ said the first speaker, ‘he was tied up, gagged and hanging in the river, half-submerged. I don’t know how Charley found him. Looks a gonner to me, sir.’

  Rollison said: ‘He mustn’t die.’ As Jolly came up he said in a strained voice: ‘We’ve found Mr Morral.’

  Jolly drew in his breath, sharply.

  There was no doubt that it was Derek, and little doubt that the police were right, although they started artificial respiration at once and worked in relays. Other men arrived to take over from time to time, while Rollison stared towards the dock gates, impatient for the doctor to arrive. He remembered something like this happening to Katrina, recalling the time when she had been almost strangled in his flat. He felt a fierce anger with himself for ever seriously thinking that Katrina had any sinister part in these crimes.

  A car drew up with a high-pitched whine, and a lanky man carrying a bag leapt from it, then walked smartly towards the Baku.

  ‘Dr Soames,’ he said, briefly, and went down on his knees. He seemed to spend a long time with Derek, lifting his eyelids, feeling his pulse, then suddenly he spoke. ‘I think he might be all right. But it’s not warm enough here. Better take him below deck.’

  ‘Won’t it waste time?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Not enough to worry about,’ said Dr Soames.

  They carried Derek down, put him on one of the bunks, and set to work again. The cabin grew unbearably hot, sweat running into the men’s eyes as they toiled over Derek; but there was no sign of returning life.

  Rollison kept seeing a picture of Katrina’s face in his mind’s eye. Katrina, so grave, Katrina dancing with Derek as if she were giving him her whole life, forgetful of all the differences and of the unhappiness which the past weeks had brought. He wondered what she would say and do if he had to tell her that Derek was dead.

  Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, there was a slight movement of Derek’s lips, hardly noticeable unless one peered closely. In half-an-hour’s time he was breathing without aid, and although he looked like death, there was no fear that he would die.

  Rollison sat down on the side of a bunk, and looked steadily at Jolly.

  ‘I think we know now why Jacobson laughed,’ said Jolly.

  Rollison said: ‘Yes. We’ll go and make sure.’

  Jacobson and Morgan had refused to make a statement, refused to be helpful in any way. Once again Rollison was surprised by Gordon, whom he had imagined would crack under the strain of interrogation, but although it was nearly four o’clock, and the man had been allowed no rest, Gordon held out.

  The other two men talked freely enough, but they could give little information of immediate value. They had been hired only that day for an ‘emergency’ job, and had understood that it was to be a smash and grab. There was nothing unusual about that, they said, for they had often worked for Jacobson before on similar jobs.

  All this, Inspector Hill told Rollison when he reached the Yard, which was in some turmoil because the Chief Constable had said that he was coming to interview the men himself; Hill was nervous, with good reason, of the effect of such intervention, for Merrick was not a good, or popular, C.C.

  ‘I’d like a word with Jacobson first,’ Rollison said.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ objected Hill, ‘you know what Merrick is. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t object, but—’

  ‘Grice wouldn’t hesitate,’ said Rollison.

  Hill pulled at his under-lip, and said he supposed there was something in that.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ he said, finally, ‘but don’t be surprised if Merrick leads off.’

  Jacobson was on his own, in a small room at the Yard. He had already been charged with being an accessory after the murder of Mary Henderson, with attempted murder, and with attempted robbery with violence. Without his wig, he looked much older than when Rollison had seen him before, but he grinned cheerfully enough when Rollison and Hill entered.

  ‘Still happy?’ murmured Rollison.

  Jacobson laughed.

  ‘Stop that!’ snapped Hill, irritably.

  ‘A joke that’s turned tables, I think,’ said Rollison pleasantly. ‘We’ve found Derek Morral, Jacobson.’

  The man stiffened, then shrugged.

  ‘A lie!’

  ‘He was half-drowned,’ said Rollison, ‘and still fastened to the Baku by a rope, but he’s alive. Is it quite so funny now, do you think?’

  Jacobson snapped: ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘But it’s true,’ said Rollison. ‘He can tell us a great deal, Jacobson, don’t you think? Who the shabby man is, for instance, and how it all started, and who is behind it.’

  Jacobson stood, silent and tight-lipped, while Hill looked bewilderedly from one man to the other. ‘No no,’ Rollison went on, ‘you haven’t much cause for laughter, Jacobson. Everything will come out, now, believe me. You’ve been buying and selling stolen jewels for years, haven’t you? And Mary Henderson was but one of a hundred agents selling the goods for you on commission, not knowing that they were stolen. At least, not knowing at first. You had the recognisable jewels shipped abroad, and those you could cut and alter you handled in London and sold quite safely, but – why did you let some of the Siamese jewels go so soon?’

  After a long pause, Jacobson said: ‘That was Lorne, the fool.’

  ‘Lorne will talk freely,’ Rollison said.

  ‘If the dead can talk,’ said Jacobson cynically.

  ‘Well, suppose you tell us,’ Rollison said, hoping to goad the man into some indiscretion. ‘About this shabby man, for instance, who shed his clothes when he went away from the dock, who came and told you and Gordon that we had found the crates and arranged for the second attempt to get them and who left you in the lurch. Is he worth such loyalty?’ Rollison asked, softly.

  Jacobson muttered: ‘He’ll see me through, he’ll always see me through!’

  ‘With murder on your charge sheet?’ said Rollison.

  ‘You can’t get me on murder!’ Jacobson’s voice rose as he turned to Hill.

  Hill did not speak, and Rollison said: ‘You knew that Lorne had murdered Mary Henderson, you took Lorne away and hid him from the police, and that made you an accessory after the fact. Murder is on the charge sheet, nothing will save you from that.’

  Jacobson said: ‘You can’t do it!’ He seemed to be more frightened now, but he still spoke defiantly. ‘You were fooled from start to finish, you don’t know who’s really behind it, you’ll never know!’

  ‘Won’t we?’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘Listen,’ said Jacobson, and he stepped forward and touched Rollison’s arm. ‘Listen, Rollison, just this once you can’t find out the truth, because you’ve been fooled from the start, see. You’ve been fooled tonight. You thought we tried to murder him, you thought—’

  He stopped abruptly, and swung round.

  Hill said softly: ‘Go on, Jacobson!’

  Jacobson said: ‘I’m not saying anything more. I won’t say another word while Rollison’s here, he’s got no right to be questioning me.’ He stood with his back towards them and his shoulders bowed, and Hill raised his hands helplessly.

  ‘All right, I’ll go,’ said Rollison.

  As he went to the door, Jacobson looked round, and there was a cunning look in his eyes, a look of triumph which startled Rollison, but which Hill did not see. The next moment Jacobson had turned away, and Rollison went into the cold, stone passages of Scotland Yard, thoughtful, alone.

  Merrick was walking along the passage, and stopped at sight of him.

  ‘You, Rollison.’

  Rollison smiled.

  ‘Hallo! I didn’t know you got up so early.’

  ‘Have you been interrogating the prisoners?’ Merrick demanded.

  ‘Wel
l,’ said Rollison, ‘I helped to catch them.’

  Merrick looked as if he would like to protest, but, contenting himself with a curt nod, went on. Rollison walked slowly towards the main doors, thinking of Grice. Grice had often warned him that the changes in the hierarchy at Scotland Yard would work to his disadvantage. Older men who had known Rollison since he had started to work, and who had given him plenty of rope, had long since left. There had been many changes and few of the new men looked with approval upon a wealthy ‘amateur’. Grice had made things bearable; so did men like Cartwright, but if Grice were unable to come back, there would be great, perhaps insuperable difficulties put in his way.

  He made inquiries about Katrina, who was still at Cannon Row Police Station, and the sergeant on duty assured him that she was asleep. From Cannon Row, he telephoned the hospital to inquire about Derek, and the report was good. The Station Sergeant also told him that one of the men had seen Grice that evening, and that Grice was making a wonderful recovery.

  Much elated by this news Rollison walked through the starlit streets to Gresham Terrace, pondering on every aspect of the case. Jacobson’s cunning glance affected him most; the man believed that he, Rollison, had been fooled, believed also

  that the police had been fooled, but he had said a little too much: ‘You thought we tried to murder him, you thought—’

  And then he had broken off.

  As he entered the flat, Rollison was greeted by an agreeable smell of frying bacon. He had not realised how hungry he was. Leaning against the sink he watched Jolly’s deft movements, talking most of the time. What, he demanded, had Jacobson meant? Hadn’t they tried to murder Derek? He repeated the question time and time again, while Jolly added two eggs to the bacon, filled a toast rack and carried the meal on a tray into the dining-room.

  ‘No bright thoughts?’ demanded Rollison dejectedly. ‘Really Jolly, here I come to you—’

  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘Then spill the beans, Jolly.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Jolly once again, ‘I do not think you can be in any doubt as to Jacobson’s meaning. There was only one man who appeared to be a victim of a murderous attack tonight, and that man was Mr Morral. Shall I make tea or coffee, sir?’

  ‘But confound it, you saw his condition!’

  ‘I know, sir, but it is not difficult to imagine that he was swung over the side to make it appear as if he were drowning,’ said Jolly. ‘It was an eventful night, and I have no doubt that some of the plans that Jacobson and his cronies made went awry. They might, for instance, have planned to “arrange” for us to discover Mr Morral a long time before we did. If that is the case, then naturally we would have assumed that Mr Morral was a victim, not one of the conspirators. That is reasonable, isn’t it?’ suggested Jolly.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rollison growled. ‘I don’t want it to be Derek Morral.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘but if the fact is established—’

  ‘I’m not sure that it is established,’ snapped Rollison. ‘Aren’t I to have anything to drink?’

  ‘Tea or coffee, sir?’ repeated Jolly, tranquilly.

  ‘Tea, I think,’ said Rollison. He set to on the bacon and eggs, hardly aware of what he was eating as he turned thoughts over and over again in his mind. When Jolly returned with the tea, he said ruminatively: ‘Jolly, there has been something worrying me from the very beginning, something that is so obvious that we’ve missed it. There must be a proper explanation of the ice-cream, and if Derek Morral is behind it, there isn’t one.’

  Jolly made no comment.

  ‘And there’s something else,’ said Rollison, ‘something both of us should have thought about a long time ago.’

  ‘To do with Mr Morral?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison. ‘How did it really start?’ He paused, and looked up at Jolly with a keener expression. ‘One thing has never been explained, Jolly, we took it in our stride, but we should not have done so. The lift, at Green Street. Someone switched the current off both times. So it was someone with ready access to the lift.’

  Jolly murmured: ‘I fully agree, sir. And if you remember, Mr Morral first thought of the electric current being switched off at the main. That would not have occurred to many people. It did not occur to you, because it appeared unreasonable to think that the current would be switched off at such an hour of the day. But he remedied it very quickly, didn’t he?’

  Rollison said: ‘Yes. We’d better have a look at that flat, I think.’

  ‘I wondered if you would like to do that, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘I managed to get Mr Morral’s keys from his pocket while he was being taken from the deck to the cabin, so we can get in quite easily.’

  Rollison laughed, shortly. ‘You’ll do. But Morral isn’t our shabby man. I’ve seen them meet face to face. Our shabby man is the key to the whole affair.’

  ‘Not forgetting the ice-cream,’ murmured Jolly.

  ‘Was that a crack?’ demanded Rollison, wryly.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘it just occurred to me that Mr Morral might have been indirectly responsible for the ice-cream disaster. He was there long enough to have given instructions, and he could have warned his wife not to eat ice-cream that night. And,’ went on Jolly, warming up, ‘Mr Morral may have arranged to sell the relics back to the original owners, hence the shipment on SS Baku. Where were the crates consigned to, sir?’

  ‘A wharfing company in Bangkok,’ said Rollison, ‘doubtless for collection.’

  ‘Most likely, sir. And who was more likely than Mr Morral to ship them back there?’

  After a long pause, Rollison said: ‘No, I don’t think it works out. It’s far too complicated. Crimes, to be successful, must be simple.’ He stood up. ‘All right, let’s go to Chelsea.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Visit to Green Street

  All was quiet in Green Street as Rollison and Jolly walked towards Number 25a. The sound of their taxi engine faded in the distance, and there was no other traffic about. It was pitch dark, and Jolly shone the light of a torch in front of Rollison, turning towards a house only when he judged they were at Number 25a; the light shone on 23.

  ‘Not a bad guess,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Shall we use the lift, sir?’ asked Jolly.

  ‘Never again in my life shall I use that lift,’ declared Rollison, ‘and in any case we don’t want to wake anyone.’

  They walked quickly up the stairs, making little sound, and hearing nothing except the rumble of a heavy lorry which passed not far away.

  ‘Key, present,’ said Rollison, as they reached the third floor. ‘I—stop, Jolly!’

  Jolly, the key in his hand, was going forward when Rollison whispered the command, and he obeyed immediately. They stared at the door of Flat 6, which a moment before had been in darkness. Now there was a thin streak of light beneath.

  ‘Over here,’ whispered Rollison, and drew Jolly towards a shadowy corner.

  Derek was still in hospital, and Katrina was at Cannon Row. No one had any right to be in the flat. It crossed Rollison’s mind that Old Glory might be making a personal investigation, but he dismissed it at once.

  There were footsteps in the hall. At any moment Rollison expected the door to open, but it did not.

  Then the light went out.

  ‘A change of mind,’ Rollison murmured. ‘Can they have heard us?’

  ‘It is most unlikely, sir,’ said Jolly.

  ‘All right, let’s look at the door.’

  He took out his pen-knife and opened the blade which was in fact a skeleton key. A quick examination of the lock pleased him. It was not a Yale or any other patent kind and should be easy to deal with. Jolly shone the light on the keyhole, and Rollison inserted the key and set to work. Several minutes passed before there was a click
as the lock turned back.

  The noise was loud enough for him to feel sure someone inside the flat had heard it. Almost immediately the ball light was switched on again, and for the first time they heard a voice.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Be careful!’

  It was impossible to recognise the voices, only just possible to distinguish the words. Rollison touched Jolly’s arm, and they moved swiftly away, towards the shadows, expecting every moment to see the door open and light stream into the passage.

  Instead, the light went out again.

  ‘Suspicions allayed,’ murmured Rollison, with relief. ‘All right, we’ll go inside, Jolly.’

  They opened the door and stepped into the hall. The light was on in the living-room, and they could hear two people moving about, presumably quite convinced of their safety.

  Rollison approached the door and stood listening, but no one was speaking now. Occasionally there was a sound as if a piece of furniture was being moved. He wished he had brought a gun, but he had not expected to encounter any trouble at Green Street. The best plan was to wait until the intruders came out again, and to take them by surprise. He stood at one side of the door and Jolly took up his position at the other.

  The movements continued, but the door remained closed. Rollison began to find the delay irksome. He was about to turn the handle when there was a loud bang inside the room.

  It was followed by complete silence.

  Incredulously, they looked at each other. The silence continued until Rollison stepped forward determinedly and turned the handle of the door.

  He went in swiftly. The light was on, but no one was there. They looked about them bewilderedly. There were no doors, only blank walls—

  Blank walls! The wonderful Persian carpets which had been stretched out on the walls were gone, and Rollison realised with a sense of shock that everything of value had been removed from the room. The finely-carved tables, the stool on which he had sat when he had paid his first visit, the beautiful pieces of Oriental silver-work, all were gone.