by John Creasey
That wasn’t really true about the blowing up at Rubicon House. The grenade had been tossed into the first-floor flat to destroy the evidence, but at the airport and in Gresham Terrace there had been only one obvious purpose: to kill him. Why? What did he know?
What damage could he do to these desperate men?
He began to feel restless; it was time he was up and doing, finding out what else had happened, if anything; whether the newspapers had really gone to town in their hunt for Alec George King, whether the prisoner had changed his mind, and talked. With the telepathic understanding or awareness which had developed over the years, Jolly appeared silently at the door.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Jolly.”
“I’ll bring tea and the newspapers immediately, sir.”
“Have they done us justice?” inquired Rollison.
“I think you will think so, sir.” Jolly withdrew and Rollison hitched himself up on the pillows. Rain spattered the windows like tears from a thousand weeping giants, and the slate roofs of houses opposite glistened beneath grey skies. It was much colder than yesterday, too. He draped a dressing-gown round his shoulders as Jolly came in with the tea tray and several newspapers under his arm. This was one of Rollison’s luxuries; tea and the newspapers, in bed.
“How is our guest?” he asked. “Fully satisfied with the newspapers, sir!”
“Good. And you?”
“Very well and hopeful, sir.”
“Better,” remarked Rollison as Jolly poured tea and he opened the first newspaper : the Globe.
There he was, staring up at himself! And there was King, also on the front page, remarkably like Loman but with some noticeable differences — Loman’s nostrils were wider, for instance. Beneath his photograph was the one word: Hero. Beneath King’s there was the simple question: Have you seen this man? The story of what had happened at Rubicon House and at Gresham Terrace was vividly related, and inside were action photogarphs of the fire. He put the Globe aside, sipped hot tea and opened the Echo. Here, the action photograph was on the front page: there he was, hands cupped as if to catch a cricket ball, elbows tucked in close to his body; and there was the hand grenade, like a black egg! Someone must have been at the window of a house opposite to get such a picture.
Ten minutes later he put down the last newspaper and took his final swallow of now luke-warm tea. He had to wait only for a few moments before Jolly came back.
“Has Grice been calling?” asked Rollison. “Yes, sir — he will be here at eleven o’clock.” Rollison shot a glance at a bedside clock, and relaxed.
“So I’ve an hour.”
“I came in as early as I did because I felt sure you would want to see him, sir. He had nothing to report. Three newspapers have been on the telephone to say they are inundated with reports from readers who say they’ve seen King, but of course there is no positive evidence yet. Mr. Grice did say that the man Hindle hasn’t been found.” Jolly allowed a decent pause, before asking: “Shall I run your bath?”
“Please. Has Mr. Loman had breakfast?”
“He elected to wait for you, sir,” Jolly said.
Something in his manner warned Rollison that all was not yet well; or at least, that Jolly was holding something back. He would not do this for long, and would not delay at all if the matter were grave or needed immediate thought or action. Rollison pushed back the bedclothes, did a few muscle and lung stretching exercises in front of the window open to the rain, had his bath and shaved and dressed, all in twenty-five minutes. It was half-past ten exactly when he went into the big room, breakfast bacon and eggs murmuring on the hot plate and the appetising smell of coffee wafting from the dining alcove.
Loman was putting down the receiver of the telephone.
“Good morning,” Rollison greeted.
“Hi,” responded Loman, in a tone so flat that here, obviously, was the source of trouble. “Jolly says you had a good night.”
“Oh, I did,” Rollison said. “Come and have breakfast. You must be hungry.”
“My stomach’s flapping,” agreed Loman, and they went to the table together.
Rollison fought back an impulse to ask what the trouble was, the bacon was crisp and the eggs as he liked them, each on a piece of fried bread : it was fascinating to watch how quickly Tommy demolished a huge plate of bacon and eggs. They were nearly through this main course before he said:
“Richard, you are more right than you know.”
“Possibly,” Rollison said. “I was once before, I’m told. What have I been prescient about now?”
“You shouldn’t have let me take Pamela home last night.”
Suddenly very still, Rollison asked: “Why not?”
Tommy told him the whole story, not once avoiding his gaze, and he finished by saying that he had just talked to Pamela’s father, and learned that Pamela was awake, and apart from having a stiff neck and a lump on the back of her head, was unharmed.
“Someone tried to choke the life out of her,” Tommy said bleakly. “He fixed me so that I didn’t even know what was happening. If you hadn’t made sure that the police and those friends of yours had followed, she would be dead. And I guess I would, too — he would have killed me after killing Pam.”
“You may well be right but no one was killed or seriously hurt, and things could have been a lot worse.” But the news added another question to those which already teased Rollison. Why try to kill him, why attack Pamela and Tommy, when it was so glaringly obvious that the impersonation attempt had failed?
Twice as they had been at the table the telephone bell had rung but Jolly had answered from the kitchen and not disturbed them. Now it rang again; and almost at once Jolly came in, to plug in a telephone so that Rollison could speak while at the table.
Rollison’s eyes asked: “Who?”
“Mr. Ebbutt, sir,” Jolly repeated.
“Ah, Bill!” Rollison spoke warmly into the telephone. “I hope you’re all right after last night.”
“Not so bad, Mr. Ar, not so bad at all,” said Ebbutt, his wheezing very pronounced. “Glad to hear from his nibs that you’re okay. Lucky you’re not in Kingdom Come, if you don’t mind me saying so. Mr. Ar, I got something on me mind about last night and I can’t get it off until I talk to you.”
“On the telephone?”
“If you could come over to the Blue Dog it would be better,” Ebbutt said. “Lil’s got a bad leg, Mr. Ar, and the doctor’s coming to see ‘er and I want to talk to him when he comes.”
“I’ll be over by one o’clock,” promised Rollison.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” Ebbutt declared. “So long.”
Then he added hastily: “You’ll come alone, woncher?”
“Yes,” Rollison promised.
Ebbutt rang off, leaving Rollison mystified and un-easy. Ebbutt was usually the most open-minded and frank of men; why was he reluctant to say all he wanted to over the telephone? Rollison replaced the receiver as Tommy stood up and poured himself more coffee. Every time he stood ‘to his full height it was startling. Rollison pushed his chair back and Jolly waited for both men to leave the alcove, then drew a curtain which divided it, when not in use, from the rest of the big room.
At eleven o’clock to the minute there was a ring at the front door bell, and Grice appeared on the periscope mirror. Rollison opened the door and sensed on the instant that Grice wasn’t pleased with life. What on earth had gone wrong with everyone this morning? Grice stood close to Rollison as the door closed, and said in a whisper:
“I want to talk in confidence, Rolly, not with Loman present.”
“If I know Loman, he will make his excuses as soon as you’ve said hallo,” remarked Rollison. The feeling of uneasiness increased, for Ebbutt had said much the same thing.
Only Jolly was in the big living-room-cum-study.
“Mr. Loman has gone to his room,” he informed them, “but he will be glad to join you if he should be needed.”
> “Thanks,” said Rollison, and motioned Grice to a chair on the far side of the desk, while he sat in his padded swivel chair, back to the Trophy Wall. “I gather things went very badly last night,” he said to Grice.
“I don’t know how badly they went,” said Grice, gruffly. “Rolly — answer a straight question.”
“I will.”
“Do you think Pamela Brown and Loman knew each other before they met here?”
“I do not,” Rollison said flatly.
“Can you be sure?”
“No,” Rollison admitted. “I can only say that the moment they met they seemed to be dazzled by each other. Why?”
“How well do you know Pamela?”
“Not at all,” Rollison said. “You gave her and her father and brother a good reference last night though.”
“She is occasionally used by the family business as a decoy,” Grice told him. “She’s a lovely-looking woman and can switch on charm like an electric current. I’ve never had the slightest reason to suspect her or her family of anything unlawful, but —”
“Decoy for what?” demanded Rollison.
“Oh, I’m sorry. A wife may come to the Browns for evidence of a husband’s infidelity. Pamela gets to work on the husband. If he starts making passes then he’s probably a man who will fall by the wayside with any attractive woman. If he doesn’t but is seriously in love with someone else, then the Browns simply tell the wife they won’t handle the case. Don’t ask me to explain what makes them tick,” Grice went on irritably. “I can only tell you what I know.”
“I don’t really see what you’re driving at,” Rollison protested.
“I’m not really sure myself,” admitted Grice, ruefully. “Did Pamela make a dead set at Loman on meeting because she know’s he’s going to inherit the fortune? Or did she fall in love?”
“I don’t know her well enough to be sure but I think she fell head over heels,” answered Rollison. “I still don’t see how this affects the main issue.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” Grice growled. “I’m not even sure it does. But I have an uneasy feeling that the Browns could be more deeply involved in this affair than I’ve suspected. Last night’s attack could have been a fake.”
“What?”
“The brother or the father could have attacked Loman and then Pamela,” Grice said. “Her injuries are superficial, it could have been an attempt to convince us that she’s in danger. Rolly, I just don’t know!” Grice pushed his chair back and stood up. “But I’m worried out of my wits. There have been two attempts to kill you, and they weren’t faked. The Rubicon House might have been mainly an attack on you, also. The Browns involved you, and their reasons are pretty specious. I have a feeling that I’m working in a nice, thick, smelly, pea-souper of a fog.” He gave a short laugh as he approached the wall to a small shelf on which stood a single hobnail boot. “It was foggy in that case, wasn’t it? I’d only just joined the force, and you were only just getting known.”
“Bill,” Rollison said quietly. “All fogs disperse sooner or later.”
“Oh, yes.” Grice turned back and leaned against a corner of the desk, closer to Rollison. “A man was picked up in the grounds of the Browns’ house last night — an American policeman whose identity is beyond all doubt. He came over on the same flight as Loman because he thought Loman might be a victim of a big luggage stealing racket at Kennedy Airport. He really came on a kind of hunch. The thing is, Rolly —”
“Yes?” Rollison’s voice was sharp.
“These are damned dangerous days. Hi-jacking of aircraft, the blowing-up of aircraft and government and police buildings are commonplace. We’ve got what looks Re a case of impersonation to get a large inheritance, but the tactics used are the same tactics as those used by terrorists. Those hand grenades are now known to contain high explosive and powerful incendiary material much more powerful than they had originally. Can you tell me what’s really going on, Roily?” Grice asked, and then leaned forward and demanded in a hard voice: “If you have the faintest idea you’ve got to tell me. You can’t fight a war against terrorists on your own.”
17
Ebbutt Warns
ROLLISON WAS SO STARTLED that In back sharply enough to bump his head against a hangman’s rope which dangled on a swivel; someone had moved it from the wall. He half-turned, pushed it back, then faced Grice again.
“No,” he said. “I can’t and I know I can’t. I have seldom, if ever before, been involved in a case about which I’ve told you everything from the beginning.”
“Everything?” Grice echoed, dubiously.
“Everything. Bill, this may be an offshoot of a baggage racket at Kennedy Airport. It could be an extension of terrorist activities — it had the look of that from the beginning, but if it is, I’ve no advance knowledge of it. And we may have a simple case of attempted fraud on a scale big enough to warrant all the violence. Did Jolly give you that tape yesterday?” he added abruptly.
“Yes.”
“That is everything I can tell you,” Rollison asserted. “But it doesn’t make sense,” protested Grice. “They are trying to kill you.”
“I was vaguely aware of that,” Rollison retorted. When Grice did not respond, he asked: “Have you learned anything from the prisoner?”
“He is a man named Simms, much older than he looks when he’s on his motor-cycle,” Grice replied. But he can’t, or won’t, give us any help. He lives in a one-room apartment in Notting Hill, and had twenty-one more of the grenades stacked in a cupboard. He’s admitted the attacks, denies that he is being paid by anyone and says he’s a revolutionary who thinks that everyone who lives in Mayfair should be executed.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No. But it could be true.”
“Did he say why he threw the bomb at Rubicon House?”
“He says he followed you and had seen you in the room.”
Rollison felt a shiver run down his spine.
“I hope there aren’t many more about like him,” he said, heavily. “Is there any word at all about Hindle?”
“No,”
“Or the actor, King?”
“No.”
“How’s his wife?” asked Rollison.
“She’s still under sedation,” answered Grice. “She came round once, and said she didn’t know where her husband was, she hadn’t seen him for two days. The baby is perfectly normal in every way according to the doctors and nurses,” he went on with a faint smile. “We still haven’t a line on King, although we’re keeping a teletype machine and five telephones open for com-munication with the newspapers, who are being inun-dated with calls from people saying they’ve seen him in a hundred different places at the same time. One or two are from people who’ve known him in the theatre or socially, and we’re following these up, of course.”
“Yes,” Rollison said, heavily.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Grice, and when Rollison didn’t answer immediately he went on: “Do you think they killed him once they knew the switch of individuals couldn’t work? So that he wouldn’t be able to talk, I mean.”
“It’s possible,” Rollison admitted.
“It’s everything I would have called melodramatic nonsense,” said Grice. “More American than British.”
“After the Kray brothers and the Great Train Robbery I don’t see how we can say that,” objected Rollison.
“Is there anything else at all you can tell me?” asked Grice, tacitly accepting defeat on that
“Nothing, but Bill Ebbutt telephoned in a mysterious mood, wanting me to go and see him,” Rollison told the Yard man. “One of his chaps might have picked something up. I’m going over to find out.”
“It’s a waste of time saying ‘be careful’,” Grice sighed, standing up slowly.
“It’s probably not even possible in this affair,” replied Rollison.
He saw Grice out, then went back to the big room to find Tommy G. Loman coming from the passage w
hich led to his room, a savage look on his face. Rollison thought for a moment that he was annoyed because Grice had not seen him, but the tall man said in a voice cold with anger :
“I called Pam’s father, and can you imagine what he said?”
“What did he say?”
“He said if I go anywhere near his daughter he’ll horsewhip me.”
Rollison, smiling faintly, said: “I would like to see him try,” and rested a hand on the bony shoulder. “It’s bad enough as it is, I know, and worse because you can do nothing. All the same, I would prefer you to stay here. You might hear from a newspaper which really has a clue where we can find King”
Scowling, Tommy said: “You want to know some-thing, Toff ? I’m not staying in this apartment for ever.”
Rollison gave a mock shudder and said: “Heaven forbid!”
Tommy was actually laughing when Rollison went out.
Police and a few newspapermen were still in the street, and the windswept rain brought a faint odour of burning from the house which had been destroyed. A small fire tender and some firemen were outside the house. Rollison evaded the newspapermen but not the police, and went to the mews garage where the battered Bristol had been taken after the fire. The engine started at a touch, and he drove to Piccadilly and then through the heart of London to the East End. The heavy rain and gusty wind made driving unpleasant. He kept a police car in view in his driving mirror, and had no doubt that policemen along the route were on the alert ‘for him and would report his progress to the Yard’s Information Room. Once through the narrow streets of the City, past the great banking houses and the insurance companies, the Bank of England and the Stock Exchange, he drove through surprisingly light traffic through Aldgate and then the Mile End Road.
The police car kept close behind.
Policemen waved him on.
Soon he was in a section of old London’s dockland, where narrow streets of tiny houses without gardens looked drab as well as dank. At last he turned a corner where there was a big Victorian public house, The Blue Dog; an inn sign with a blue greyhound on it swung and groaned in the wind. He pulled round the corner, to a wooden building standing back from the road, emblazoned:
