by John Creasey
The men and women in the crowd swung round and a man shouted: “There’s Rollison!” Another called: “There’s the Toff!” Others called out, many ran and cameras flashed. Ebbutt slid out of the driver’s seat on his errand. Soon questions were being flung at Rollison.
“Were you at Rubicon House?”
“Did you know she was going to have a baby?”
“Had you ever seen her before?”
“Was it an attempt to kill you, Toff?”
“Have you seen her since the baby was born?”
“Bill!” called Rollison in a tone which could be heard by nearly everyone present, “give one long blast on your horn, will you?”
“Glad to,” Ebbutt said, and immediately the horn hooted a hoarse, low-pitched sound which cut across the questions, silencing everybody. Then it wailed into silence itself, and Rollison raised his voice:
“I’ve no time to answer questions but I’ll make a statement. Ready?” After a chorus of ‘we’re ready’ and ‘fire away’, he went on: “I went to Rubicon House to look for a character actor named Alec George King, who lives there. I did not know him or his wife, Effie. King wasn’t there and I believe he’s in acute danger — of losing his life. Every newspaper must have a picture of him somewhere in its files. I don’t give a damn what you say about me provided you make everyone realise I want to see this man — urgently.”
“What do the police say?” a man called out. “They can’t act on this, yet.”
“Do you think King started the fire?” a man demanded.
“Did you start the fire?” another called.
“No, to both,” Rollison said. “The man or woman who started the fire was medium size, and King is six feet seven. The man or woman rode a motor-cycle, and wore a stocking mask. I can’t tell you anything about the man who started the fire but I can tell you about Alec George King.” He paused for a moment and then called: “Is there anyone here from the Globe?”
“Yes — I am!” a tall, fair-haired man showed clearly in the street lamplight.
“Is your name Stevens?”
“No — we’ve no one named Stevens on the paper.”
“Check at your office for me, will you?” asked
Rollison. “A man purporting to be from the Globe —”
“Mr. Ar!” bellowed Ebbutt, fear overcoming the hoarseness of his voice, “look out!”
A policeman shouted: “He’s throwing a bomb!”
Rollison saw the crowd freeze, momentarily, except for two policemen and a man on the pavement, whose right hand was raised in the act of throwing. For an awful moment it seemed as if most of those present were mesmerised by fear, but suddenly there was a wave of movement from the car; the crowd seemed to billow and sway rather than turn and run.
In the half-light, Rollison could see the dark spheroid in the air, curving an arc towards him and the Model T. He dared not take his eyes off it; dared not look to see if the man had turned and run once he had hurled the bomb. Rollison felt sure it would be a hand grenade, which would explode on contact with car or road. He had never been nearer to death. He stepped down from the running board and cupped his hands, fully aware that if he caught the grenade it might blow up in his hands.
He caught it.
It did not go off instantly.
With great deliberation he drew back his arm and threw the grenade towards the empty house; and he had never been nearer praying. No one was close to the spot, but if it exploded outside it could do unspeakable harm.
It crashed through the window.
A split-second later, it exploded.
14
Capture
ROLLISON WAS AWARE only of one thing: the flash of the explosion and the strange shape of the star-like hole which appeared in the window. He threw himself down, covering his head with his arms, and heard the roar and felt the blast. He was lifted bodily, but only a few inches. He heard the thudding and cracking of glass, mortar, pieces of brick and wood which fell into the street; one fell, lightly, on the small of his back; another, sharper, hit the fingers of his right hand.
The sounds all merged into one; a kind of roaring.
He only knew that the bomb had not exploded among people, among the reporters, that it had caused as little damage as possible; that he was alive.
He was oblivious of everything else; of the man who had thrown the bomb, for instance. And what happened in Gresham Terrace on that long-to-be-remembered night was seen by different people in different little silhouettes; none saw everything, but the picture of all that had happened was formed when every segment was put together.
* * *
Jolly at one window, Pamela Brown and Tommy G. Loman from another, saw a foreshortened view. The sudden shouting had drawn them to the windows and Loman had been the first to fling one up, momentarily ignoring Pamela. Then she was beside him and they squeezed together, Tommy’s long arm about her. They peered out, hearing Rollison’s clear statement and his answers to the questions, seeing the crowd, sensing a mood of some hostility. Then the policeman had shouted:
“He’s throwing a bomb!”
They saw the curious way the crowd seemed to sway back for the Toff, they watched as if hypnotised as the Toff caught the missile and, without a thought of nerves, threw it towards the empty house.
“Oh, God!” breathed Pamela.
Then Jolly cried: “Stop him, stop him!”
Tommy G. Loman looked away from the Toff and the bomb as the explosion flashed and roared, and saw a man pushing his way past two or three others, and saw, suddenly, a motor-cycle between two parked cars.
“Stop that man!” roared Tommy G.
“Stop him!” cried Jolly.
Pamela made herself look away from Rollison, who was flat on the ground, towards the man. Tommy was roaring: “Stop him, stop him!” and clutching her more tightly than she had ever been held in her life.
Two men broke from the crowd.
One was a policeman and the other was Ebbutt’s man on that side of the street. The escaping man was only a few yards from the motor-cycle. He leapt towards it, straddled the seat and kicked the starter, but before he could move the machine Ebbutt’s man was leaping at his back and the policeman pulling at his arm, until he was half on and half off the saddle. Motor-cycle and would-be rider collapsed against a car.
When all three men stood up the motor-cyclist was handcuffed to the policeman.
That was the moment when Tommy G. realised that his great hand was cupping Pamela’s breast, not clutching her waist. It was the moment, too, when Pamela placed her hand over his as if to keep it there. And it was the moment when Jolly said in a trembling voice:
“Thank God he’s all right. Thank God.”
He meant Rollison, of course, who was being helped to his feet.
Yellow light from the fire already burning fiercely in the empty house shone on his face, making strange brilliance and dark shadow.
* * *
The television cameraman who wheedled his way into getting permission to install himself on the porch of a house had bemoaned his luck until the shout: “He’s throwing a bomb!” The veering crowd, the movement of Richard Rollison from the running board of the T-model Ford, all came within his line of vision. He had special lights and highly sensitive film, and simply kept his finger on the ‘take’ button and the lens on Rollison.
He saw the explosion in vivid if miniature brilliance.
He saw Rollison moving like a Lilliputian, throwing himself down.
He heard the shouting: “Stop him!” and swivelled the camera and took pictures of the running men. They had disappeared from sight when he ran out of film, but he had so much that he could have danced for joy.
* * *
There were the viewpoints of the dozens of news-papermen; the still cameras and the 16 mm. held high above the photographer’s head.
And there was Bill Ebbutt’s view.
Ebbutt, a tall man, was nearer Rollison than any of the others,
and nearer the explosion. He watched open-mouthed as Rollison caught the missile, even more openmouthed as it was thrown unerringly into the front room of the empty house. He was the first to reach Rollison, and to see that he was no more than winded and bruised. It was no time at all before the flames began to roar, no time at all before the police were calling at houses nearby with warnings that the fire might spread. Remarkably soon, fire-engine sirens sounded in the distance and more police arrived, to cordon off the danger area. Most of the newspapermen were on their way back to Fleet Street, unable to put their stories in soon enough. Not a man among them failed to start with glowing tributes to the Toff.
An hour after he had left his flat, Rollison went up-stairs with Jolly just behind him; he had wanted Ebbutt to come up but Ebbutt pleaded that he must go home and tell his wife about the events of the past hour.
Half-way down the top flight of stairs was Pamela, her eyes glowing, and just behind her, stood Tommy G. Loman.
“Richard!” Pamela exclaimed, and hurled herself at Rollison. “You’re not hurt, are you? Tell me you’re not hurt!”
“All I need is some trifle,” Rollison said lightly. “And I could do with a brandy as a chaser! No, I’m not hurt — barely a scratch here and there.”
“Richard,” said Tommy, quietly, “that was the bravest thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty. You expected an attack, didn’t you?”
“If you or I appeared on the scene, yes,” answered Rollison.
“Or Pamela,” murmured Tommy, putting his arm round Pamela’s waist. “And you went to draw the man’s fire.”
“Thank heavens they caught him!” exclaimed Pamela.
“With a little luck a kind-hearted policeman will soon tell us whether he’s talked,” Rollison remarked. “Now I’m going to tidy up, while Jolly produces his dessert.” He left them looking at him with expressions not far short of adulation, and went to his bedroom, then across to his bathroom. He swayed and held on to the hand-basin; the room seemed to be going round and round when Jolly came in, and without speaking, led him back to the bedroom and into an easy chair. Soon, Jolly had loosened his collar and tie, taken off his shoes and sponged his hands and face, his neck and forehead. After a while his head no longer went round and round and there was no drumming in his ears. At last, Jolly brought brandy.
“I must get back to the others,” Rollison said.
“They are perfectly all right, sir,” Jolly insisted. “They don’t mind being left at all. If you really want a little trifle —”
“I shall stick to coffee and brandy,” Rollison decided.
It was not long before, clad in a dressing-gown and wearing fleece-lined leather slippers, he went back to the big room. He did not know what had happened to Pamela and Tommy but they looked radiantly happy. Rollison lowered himself cautiously into his chair which gave him a comprehensive view of the room, and watched them with avuncular interest. The Regency star clock centred over the mantelpiece showed that it was half-past ten; as long an evening as he had ever known.
“You look better,” Pamela said.
“I feel better,” agreed Rollison. “I hadn’t realised the excitement had knocked me silly. Have you two solved all our and the world’s problems while I’ve been taking a snooze.”
“You have,” declared Pamela.
“Surely,” said Tommy G. “The police are sure to make the prisoner talk, aren’t they? And once he talks —”
“Even if he talks he may not know a great deal,” Rollison pointed out. “But with luck we shall get news of Alec King in the morning.”
Tommy nodded soberly.
“Every newspaper in the country will probably carry a picture of him,” he observed. “Even before you proved what a good catcher you were, you were doing fine.” He rose from his chair to his full enormous height, and went on: “Richard, I am going to walk Pamela home, so you can go to bed.”•
There was such positiveness in his voice that he ob-viously expected Rollison to object to his going out. Half of Rollison wanted to say “only a fool in your position would venture out tonight”, but Pamela could be in as much danger as Tommy G. Loman and apparently these two young people had moved a long way from casual acquaintances in the past few hours.
“Tommy,” he said. “I have bad news for you.”
“Richard, I don’t want to be difficult, but I —”
“You will have police behind you all the time,” finished Rollison.
“Oh,” said Tommy. “The cops.” He grinned re-signedly. “Sure. After what’s happened I guess I can’t expect anything else. Did you bring a wrap or a coat, Pam?”
“No,” answered Pamela. “I hadn’t expected to be so late.”
“I’m sure Jolly can find you something,” Rollison offered. “If one of you will save my legs and press the bell by the fireplace —”
In a moment, Jolly appeared.
“If Miss Brown will come with me,” he said, benignly, “she can select which wrap she would prefer.”
He was out of the room with her when the front door bell rang.-
Tommy turned towards it, half way out of the room and into the lounge-hall before Rollison had risen from his chair. Rollison did not know why he felt such sudden tension, was close to screaming point. On such a night anything might happen, men with such daring as the throwers of bombs might easily have charmed their way through the police cordon and be at the front door. One glance at the periscope mirror above the wall was all he needed to make sure.
He need not have worried.
“If you will allow me, sir,” came Jolly’s voice. Jolly must have nipped along the other passage, and he would not open the door without a glance in the periscope mirror. The sound of the front door opening followed and Jolly went on in a voice which, to the Toff’s experienced ear, reflected some guarded pleasure. “Good evening, sir.”
“Hallo, Jolly,” said Chief Detective Superintendent Grice. “Is he all right?”
Rollison smiled and relaxed.
Grice came in, with Tommy who soon went back to Pamela Brown. Jolly appeared fleetingly to announce the policeman. Grice, as tall as Rollison, was still dwarfed by the man from Arizona. They were obviously wary of each other; as obviously Grice had not come to force any issue.
“One thing you can do is to have Mr. Loman and
Miss Brown followed, and Mr. Loman seen back safely here,” Rollison said.
“I have already prepared for that with Mr. Ebbutt,” said Jolly, coming in behind Pamela, “and the police will no doubt follow his men in turn.”
“I should have known,” said Rollison.
He watched Grice’s expression when the policeman saw Pamela.
Obviously, it was one of recognition and there was a hint of surprise. Quite suddenly the others dropped into the background, while Grice and the girl looked at each other.
“Hallo, Miss Brown,” Grice said at last. “Is your father better?”
“Thank you, yes,” she said. “I didn’t realise you knew he’d been ill.”
“He was to have appeared as a witness in the South Western Court two days ago, and sent his apologies,” said Grice. “I thought you’d been laid low, too.”
“I was,” said Pamela, smiling brightly. “Down first, up first.”
“I must say it did you good,” said Grice drily. “Thank you, sir!”
“When this is over I shall want to know why you didn’t come to the Yard with the whole story,” Grice said, in a voice which he tried to make severe but did not wholly succeed.
“I’m sure Mr. Rollison will explain why,” Pamela retorted. She was radiant as she turned to Rollison, and bent over and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. “Richard, you’ve been an absolute darling. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
She was gripping his hands tightly when Tommy said:
“I echo them there sentiments, Richard.”
He slid his arm through Pamela’s and they went off; Jolly, with his uncanny ability to se
e everything that went on in the flat at once, was at the door to show them out. Grice leaned against the big desk, his back to the trophies, and looked at Rollison with a smile in his eyes and on his lips.
“And a matchmaker too,” he teased.
“That young man is a much faster worker than he looks,” Rollison said. “So you know the Browns.”
“Very well. It’s a family team and they specialise in tracing ancestors, family trees and that kind of research although they have taken on divorce work and searched for missing persons.” Grice looked up as Jolly came in with coffee, cheese and biscuits on a tray — and the trifle, which looked most attractive in a cut glass bowl. “Rolly,” Grice went on. “I am told you were magnificent.”
Rollison waved his hands in silent disclaimer.
“And so will the newspapers, in the morning,” went on Grice. “My men tell me they’ve never known such a change in the attitude of the Press. At first they thought you’d gone too far and scared Effie King into the premature delivery and they half-thought you’d caused the fire at her place. Now —” He spread his hands. “Are you up to talking.”
“Not too long, sir, I beg you,” pleaded Jolly. “No, not too long,” Grice promised.
“Thank you. Will you have some trifle, sir?”
“Do you know, it looks so tempting I believe I will,” decided Grice, who had a notoriously sweet tooth despite his lean figure. “A little of that Cheshire cheese first, if I may.”
Jolly ministered. Rollison stuck to coffee, and Grice simply asked : “Tell me all you know, Rolly. And if Jolly could tape it — ?”
Rollison leaned back, eyes half-closed, and remem-bered from the beginning, so short a time and yet so long ago. Everything that had happened was vivid in his mind, and he related the story with great lucidity while Jolly sat at the big desk with two small transistor tape recorders taking down every word. When the story was told, up to the moment when he had come back here and nearly collapsed, the second recorder tape had been used up. There was a sharp click! as Jolly switched the machine off.
