by John Creasey
“I didn’t,” said Rollison. “I looked into his eye to see whether he was conscious. I don’t think he is or he would have started when I first touched it and the eyelid would have flickered. But I doubt if he’ll be unconscious for long, now. What did he have with him?”
“Passport, a few coins and small change, some keys and his ticket copy with some baggage receipts clipped on and having your name and address as his address in England,” stated Paterson. “Either his luggage was left behind in Tucson, Arizona, or it was stolen, for he didn’t have any when he reached New York.”
“Oh,” said Rollison blankly.
Then a youthful Pakistani doctor came in, was pleasant, examined the patient, assured them that he would come round within an hour, and ushered all of them out, except Jones. It was a very convincing exertion of authority and could cause offence to no one. The nurse pulled the bedclothes down farther over the big feet, but did not even make a pretence of tucking them in. Rollison and Paterson walked past the guard and out to the guards at the front of the small building.
“Have you noticed anything at all suspicious?” asked Paterson.
“No, sir. And we are in regular walkie-talkie contact with the men on either side.”
“Don’t let anyone on a motor-cycle go in, whatever his credentials,” warned Paterson, and then added to Rollison : “His clothes, shoes and everything he had with him are in my office. Fingerprints and Photography will have finished with them by now. Would you care to look at them before I send them to the hospital?”
“Very much,” Rollison said.
A few minutes afterwards he was looking at a well-made suit in a sandy-colour, a large-brimmed hat with a curly brim of a darker colour, more brown than sandy, and cowboy boots of the same colour as the hat, beautifully made in a patterned leather. The heels were a different shape from ordinary walking shoes, and the tops were wide and trimmed with darker leather. They had a new look, but were obviously broken in; the leather was soft and pliable. Next to these were a checked shirt with piping at the collar and the two breast pockets, a tie which was like a leather shoelace threaded through what looked like a cow’s face in copper and with a turquoise blue filigree ring. The other oddments were impersonal, even to a pack of paper handkerchiefs.
“No socks?” asked Rollison.
“They must have left them at the hospital,” Paterson said. “Do you know —” he broke off, as if embarrassed, but when Rollison did not push him to go on, he said:
“This is the first murder attempt I’ve come across at the airport.”
“I wish I knew the motive,” Rollison sighed. Paterson’s eyes widened. He had very fair hair and fair skin, and his face was full of freckles.
“Surely that’s obvious.”
“Tell me, then,” begged Rollison.
“To prevent you from seeing him!”
“Oh,” said Rollison, startled. “Yes. Yes, possibly.”
All the time he had been expecting Paterson to ask questions about the girl who had been with him, but the policeman still did not mention her. The motor-cyclist’s attack could have been on her, not on the Toff, but if Jack Fisher had forgotten to mention Pamela Brown then Paterson probably did not know she had been in the car with him. Paterson looked at him curiously and said:
“I would have thought you’d realise that.”
“No one wants to believe he’s a target for murder,” Rollison murmured. “What are you planning to do with Thomas G.?”
“Loman? I’m blessed if I know.”
“He did have my address,” Rollison mused. “And in view of all that’s happened, I’d better take him in. Can you send me an escort car?”
“Grice may have something to say about where he goes,” demurred Paterson. “He’s sending two men, remember?”
“I remember,” Rollison said. “I think you’ll find they would like to have me in the West End together with Loman, so that they can keep an eye on our comings and goings. I wonder if you can check on my car?”
His Bristol was battered, it proved, but washed and serviceable.
An hour later, Thomas G. Loman was conscious, and in two hours, the Pakistani doctor said it was all right for him to travel. All Loman could tell the police, it seemed, was that he had fallen asleep in his seat and remembered nothing until he had come round in the hospital.
He still looked dazed.
Meanwhile, Grice’s men, a detective sergeant and a detective officer whom Rollison did not know even by sight, had come to take over from Paterson’s officers. They were obviously more pleased than sorry that they could go back to London at once. The only piece of information they could give Rollison was negative: there was no trace of the motor-cyclist.
No one else seemed to be aware of the existence of Pamela Brown.
It was half past twelve when Thomas G. Loman, fully dressed, almost unbelievably tall, came out of the hospital, with the nurse by his side. She barely reached his shoulder. Paterson and his men as well as the two men from the Yard were watching, obviously intent on finding out if Loman showed any sign of recognition.
Rollison, standing by the side of his car, said: “I’m Richard Rollison.”
The other hesitated; this puzzled Rollison, who thought there was a question in his mind; but he did not put it into words.
“Shall we go?” Rollison suggested.
“Sure.” Loman immediately moved towards the driving wheel, but then drew back, gaping. “The wheel’s on the wrong side!”
“We do things that way in England,” Rollison explained.
“England? Oh — of course.” In a few long strides the American went to the other side, opened the door and climbed in; he showed the tall man’s care in bending his knees and stretching his legs. He put them out at full length and looked round in astonishment. “There’s good room,” he said. “Is that the way you do things in England, too?”
“Only when a car is custom-built,” said Rollison. “Gee!” breathed Thomas G. Loman.
He appeared then to surrender himself wholly to the joy of the car; its upholstery, its comfort, its instruments, its smooth starting, its easy riding. He leaned back in his seat and half closed his eyes and appeared to be ecstatic. Then he sat up and bumped his head.
“Oh!”
“And that’s the way we do things in England,” Rollison said. “Be careful.”
“I certainly will,” promised his passenger.
He began to look about him as if for the first time. He stared at cars and stared at people, at houses and the shops. Now and again he rubbed his long fingers together; he could make a cracking sound with his knuckles. Rollison did not try to make him talk yet; he was bound to ask questions before long, and information would probably come easier that way.
“Gee,” he said, “it’s different.”
“Very different?” asked Rollison.
“Oh, sure, different. There’s so much green,” observed Loman. “And all of the cars are so small. And a lot of people walk.”
“Don’t they in Tucson?” asked Raison.
“Only down town — say, this isn’t London yet, is it?”
“We’re on the outskirts.”
“I will say one thing,” said Loman after a pause. “Everything sure is green.” He edged up in his seat and looked about him for a long time, and then declared “It sure is green.”
“We get a lot of rain,” remarked Rollison, solemnly. “Rain,” echoed Loman, and added: “Sure. We get ours in July and December.”
Rollison wondered how long it would be before the man began to explain; there was no great hurry as far as he could judge, and it may even have to wait until they reached Gresham Terrace. He had not called Jolly, so Jolly would have lunch ready. He glanced in the driving mirror, and saw the police car. He would be followed wherever he went until the mystery was solved or unless he gave his shadowers the slip. There was no need to do that yet. He passed the end of Hood Lane, and half-smiled at the thought of Pamela Brown, who
certainly hadn’t told all she knew. Behind that sweet and innocent façade and ingenuousness of manner was a sharp and undoubtedly devious mind. An M.G. not unlike hers passed in the opposite direction, with a man at the wheel.
“Excuse me,” Loman said.
“Yes,” said Rollison promptly.
“I didn’t get your name.”
“You didn’t —” began Rollison, and actually took his eyes off the road to look sharply at the American. But Loman was now sitting back, eyes half-closed, a dreamy smile on his face. He had a remarkable profile, a face half as long again as an average face but everything in proportion; his eyes were deep and seemed to push his cheekbones down. His upper lip was long, and so was his chin; in profile it did not seem to be so spade-shaped.
Unless he was very clever at dissembling, this young man meant exactly what he said: he had not caught Rollison’s name.
Rollison drew in a deep breath.
“My name is Richard Rollison,” he stated carefully. “Of 25g, Gresham Terrace.”
Loman began to frown. Out of the corner of his eyes Rollison saw him glance towards him, a quick, appraising glance. He sat even more upright in his seat, and after a while said:
“Richard Rallison.”
“Rollison.”
“Row-lisson.”
“There are two ells, which make the ‘o’ short,” explained Rollison, and pronounced his name again with great care. Traffic was now very thick and he needed to concentrate on driving, so dared not look at the American who had now twisted round in his seat and was staring, much as Pamela Brown had earlier.
Very slowly and deliberately, he said:
“Rol-liss-on.”
“That’s it,” approved Rollison. “That’s exactly right. Richard Rollison.”
“Then,” stated Thomas G. Loman, “you are the man I’ve come to see.”
“That’s what it said on your aeroplane ticket as I understand it,” Rollison agreed. “When the police dis-covered that, and also discovered that you had been given a shot of morphine and afterwards robbed, they asked if I would come and see you. That’s why I’m here.”
They were now out of the various overpasses and in Cromwell Road, with the tall, old-fashioned terraced houses on either side. Traffic was very thick, the stench of fumes nauseating on a warm English autumn day. A huge B.E.A. coach pushed by, crowding Rollison; the car behind him hooted. It wasn’t the police car, which had fallen farther behind. Soon, they were in thinner traffic by the Kensington museums, but a thick bottleneck at the approach to Knightsbridge lay ahead.
“Mr. Rollison,” Loman said, suddenly: “Is this London?”
“Yes — this is near the heart of London.”
“Those are pretty big buildings on the left.”
“They are museums. We are just entering Knights-bridge, one of the several centres of London.” Rollison found himself talking like a tour guide, and even enthusing over London. Unless the traffic was slowed down to a crawl in Piccadilly they would be in Gresham Terrace in ten minutes, and this was neither time nor place to start a game of questions and answers. It crossed his mind that Loman might open the door and get out when they were at a standstill, but the young American showed no sign of doing that. Indeed, he marvelled.
“That’s sure bigger than Levy’s,” he said of Harrods. “Levy’s?”
“That’s the biggest department store in Tucson. That place is bigger. Harrods.” He looked about him at thronged pavements, shops and tall buildings, and was startled when they drove beneath the Hyde Park Under-pass. As they came up in Piccadilly he said: “Gee! That park has more trees than Randolph, and it sure is green. You must have a lot of rain in England.”
“We have enough,” Rollison said, wryly. He put on his blinker for the next left hand turn, since Gresham Terrace was now only a few hundred yards away. He made the turn, with Thomas G. Loman still looking about him. Then Loman straightened up as Rollison said: “We’ll be at my home in two or three minutes.”
“That’s fine,” said Loman. “I am surely looking forward to seeing an English home, Mr. Rollison.” He put a slightly exaggerated emphasis on the ‘Roll’ but otherwise pronounced the name well. “Would you mind answering me a question? Would you mind telling me why you asked me to come and see you? Because I sure would like to know.”
7
Dead End
“MR. LOMAN,” ROLLISON SAID, somehow holding on to his patience. “What are you called? Tom or Thomas or Tommy or what?”
“Tom,” answered Loman, calmly. The fact that Rollison had so parried his question did not seem to affect him at all. “Just Tom. What do they call you? Richard? Or Dick? Or Dickie?”
Rollison shuddered.
“Never Dickie,” he replied. “Seldom Dick. Often Richard. Much more often, Rolly.”
“Like in holly?” asked Loman.
“Exactly as in holly.”
“Thanks.”
They were in Gresham Terrace, and by one of the near miracles that can make or mar a modern day, a parking space loomed up only a few yards from Number 25. Rollison manoeuvred the car into it, inches from the kerb, and Loman uncoiled himself and got out. He stood at his full height, peering up at the tall, graceful buildings, and slowly shook his head.
“I’ve never seen any place like it,” he declared.
“Except for a few dozen streets about here, there aren’t any,” Rollison told him. “There’s one grave dis-advantage. There is no lift.”
“Come again.”
“No lift — no elevator.”
“You mean you walk up? Like in a New York brown-stone?”
“Yes. And I live on the top floor.”
“If there’s one thing I have learned about you,” volunteered Thomas G. Loman. “It’s that you like doing things the hard way.” He looked up and down the street again, seeing the great variety of parked cars and a dozen people including a nursemaid holding a toddler by the hand, and then he actually patted the roof of the car. “What do you call her?” he asked.
“A nurse,” answered Rollison, with resignation. Loman looked astonished. “You call her —” he broke off, and smiled.
He had half-smiled before, just showing his white teeth set in the angular lower jaw, but this was the first time Rollison had really seen him smile as if he were deeply amused. It created deep lines at his eyes and others at the corners of his mouth, and it sank his jaw inches lower than its norm. Also, it wrinkled his nose at either side; there was no doubt at all that it made him look remarkably like a horse; a happy horse, Rollison thought with helpless indulgence.
“I don’t mean the blonde,” he said. “I mean the automobile!”
“Oh, the Bristol.”
“Come again.”
“The Bristol. B-R-I—”
“I know how you spell the name of the maker,” interrupted Loman. “You don’t have a name for her?”
“No.”
“I thought all the British had a name for their auto-mobiles. Like Genevieve, or something.”
“Genevieve —” began Rollison, and then he laughed outright. “Did you see the film of the old crocks’ race?”
“I surely did, answered Loman. “It was a dandy. So you don’t have a name for this beauty?”
“I’m afraid not,” Rollison said.
Loman shrugged, and they turned into the door of the house where Rollison lived. The tall American had to duck to get beneath the lintel, and once inside, stood and gaped up the narrow well of the staircase and the narrow staircase itself, with its wrought iron balustrade and the purple carpet. He held on to the rail as he went up ahead of the Toff, paused at each half and each main landing to look down, reached the landing before the Toff’s and stood still.
“Why don’t you find a name for your car?”
Rollison said amiably: “If you really want me to, I’ll consider it.”
“Sure, I want you to. An automobile like that shouldn’t be anonymous. Mr. — Rolly. Will you tell me somethi
ng?”
Rollison thought: He can’t put the subject off much longer, and said: “Yes.”
“What happened to your automobile?” asked Loman. “In what way do you mean?”
“The holes. The dents. The gashes. Boy, they certainly made that automobile of heavy grade steel, any ordinary auto would have been like a pepper pot. It didn’t happen long ago, the edges where big pieces of metal tore through the steel are bright as silver. No oxidisation. So — what happened to the Bristol, Mr. — Richard?”
Rollison started up the stairs, but suddenly Loman gripped his arm with powerful fingers, and unless he wanted a struggle, it would be folly to pull himself free.
He saw the front door of his flat open an inch and had no doubt that Jolly was behind it, listening: he would have wondered why they were taking so long getting upstairs.
“A youth on a motor-cycle threw a hand grenade, but missed the window,” Rollison said clearly. “It struck the ground and went off : the Bristol caught most of the splinters.”
The door opened wider, an indication of Jolly’s concern.
Thomas G. Loman’s mouth dropped open and he took his hand away.
“Today?” he asked.
“Today.”
“In England?”
“At London Airport,” Rollison asseverated.
Thomas G. Loman blinked, closed his mouth and gulped, then slowly shook his head and said in a hopeless-sounding voice: “England is a surprising country. It sure is.” He started up the stairs again, still shaking his head — until Jolly opened the door wider still, showing his concern.
They were at the top landing.
Loman looked at Jolly as if at an apparition: the black jacket, grey cravat, striped trousers and highly polished black shoes. The sparse grey hair, too, and lined face. The melancholy brown eyes were turned towards Rollison and not until he was satisfied that his employer was unhurt did he acknowledge Loman, inclining his head and saying:
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Jolly,” Rollison said. “Mr. Loman will be staying with us for a few days. And meanwhile, if lunch hasn’t spoiled —” He paused hopefully.
“Will ten minutes be all right, sir?”
