by John Creasey
“He didn’t say he was going away,” Angela informed him.
Raison rang off, and immediately put in a call to Webberson; as usual there was no answer. On the spur of the moment, he went downstairs and walked to his garage, in a mews nearby, took out his latest car, a grey Allard, and drove to St. John’s Wood. Webberson lived in a top floor flat of a block which towered above its neighbours; from south windows it was possible to see almost all of the ground at Lords.
Raison got out of the lift opposite Number 901— Webberson’s flat. Outide the front door was a printed note : “No tradesmen until I’m back, please,” and it was followed by the initials “K.W.” It was an odd way for an intelligent man to advertise the fact that the fiat was empty, and Rollison studied the note, and then the front door—and on that instant decided to break in.
There was no convincing reason why he should suspect anything was wrong, but the suspicion was very strong in him. He drew on a pair of thin cotton gloves, not wanting to leave prints, then took out a knife with blades of highly flexible steel, and began to work on the lock.
CHAPTER 5
Crime Of Violence
As he pushed the blade between the lock and the door frame, waiting for the moment when the tension on both sides became the same and the lock would click back, Rollison felt a dozen questions tearing through his mind. Was this crazy? Was there really any reason to think anything was wrong? If a neighbour came out of one of the other three doors in sight, how could he explain what he was doing?
None of the questions made him hesitate.
As he worked, manipulating the blade with infinite patience, he listened intently. The silence was broken by a loud clang as the trelliswork inner gate of the lift closed. Almost at once there was a whirring sound, of the lift ascending. The odds against it coming to this floor were eight to one, but there was no way of being sure.
The lock clicked, and Webberson’s door sprang open an inch.
The lift seemed to be coming very fast.
Rollison stepped inside the door and closed it, holding it tight with his left hand, for it would not close properly until the lock was repaired. Was this Webberson, by some strange freak of chance?
The lift stopped on the floor below.
Half jeering at himself but intensely relieved, Rollison put on a light, for the hall had no windows. A chair stood by a table against the wall and he placed the chair at the door; no one passing would now notice that it was open. There were four doors—one right, one left, two facing the front door. The parquet flooring was dull and looked dusty, as empty places will. A persian rug covered half the floor.
He opened the door on the left: it was the bathroom.
A towel lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, shaving gear was on a glass-topped table, and a safety razor and a shaving brush stood as if they had just been used. He looked at the brush, noticing the dried-up lather, matting the badger bristles—so it had not been washed after the shave. He opened the door opposite, into a kitchen, where a window overlooked an inner courtyard.
It was very modern and at first glance, clean. But there were cups and saucers and knives and forks, piled unwashed into the sink. A jar of ground coffee beans stood with the lid off, and a carton of cream, the lid partly on, was near it. Rollison poked at the lid, gingerly, using his finger nail. It was solid, with a minute line of mould growing at the edges where it had dried and drawn away from the side of the carton.
Rollison’s breath was coming tensely.
He went to the right hand door facing the hall, which was ajar. He opened it wider with his elbow, and peered into a bedroom. This had the big windows overlooking lawns and parking places; a pair of trousers, carelessly folded, lay at the foot of the bed, a clean shirt was draped over a chair, clean socks were poked into shoes placed near. It was as if Webberson had put everything out so as to nip into the bedroom from the bathroom, and change. Some silver change and a wallet, keys, cigarettes and book-matches lay on a dressing-table which stood slantwise, catching the light.
Rollison’s heart began to thump, as he turned into the hall and the other room, the door of which was closed.
Webberson, lying in a crumpled heap by the telephone, was almost an anti-climax—not only after what Rollison had seen, but from the effluvium of decomposing flesh which met him as he opened the door.
Rollison stood in the bedroom for some time, re-covering. He was accustomed to the sight of death, and normally unaffected, but this was the death of an old friend—and death by violence, for the back of Webber-son’s head had been smashed in.
Now, he had to decide what to do.
He saw the photograph of an attractive girl on a bookcase, signed : With love, Winifred. There was also a picture of an elderly couple, Keith’s long-dead parents. There was nothing else of interest.
As he searched, he pondered deeply. He could call the police from here and wait for them—and admit that he had broken in; or he could leave, and call anonymously, and show a lively interest when the story broke in the papers. There wasn’t much doubt of the better course, although he had to overcome strong prejudices. This was too much of a coincidence : it must be connected with the trouble at Smith Hall. If he were associated with it from the beginning, he would have staked a claim in the investigation. No one else need know, yet, what was happening at the Hall.
He decided to knock at a neighbour’s, for the pos-sibility of picking up a vital clue would offset the obvious disadvantage. As he stepped out of the flat he had a vivid mental picture of Angela’s eager face.
What had he thrust her into?
Was she in danger even at this moment?
He rang a bell across the landing, and a middle-aged man answered, hovering near as Rollison used the telephone in the hall which was identical with Webberson’s.
“Scotland Yard ..” Rollison began. “Mr. Grice, please . . . Yes, Superintendent Grice . . . What time did he go? . . . Will you call him at his home and tell him that Richard Rollison . . . R-O-L-L-I-S-O-N is at 901 Pack-ham House, St. John’s Wood and would very much like to see him here . . . Yes, I am an old friend . . . And will you also tell him that a murder squad is needed at the same address.”
“Hold on!” cried an operator, until that moment almost cynically uninterested. “I’ll put you through to Information.”
Rollison rang off, looking into the pale face of the neighbour, who was obviously badly shocked by what he had heard Rollison say.
It was hard to believe that Keith Webberson was actually dead; it almost numbed him.
“Did you say—say murder?” the neighbour asked.
“I did, I’m afraid,” confirmed Rollison.
“Who—” The man’s voice was unsteady.
“Professor Webberson.”
“But—but he lives opposite !”
“He used to,” Rollison said quietly.
“Are you—sure?”
“Beyond all shadow of doubt,” said Rollison. “Perhaps you will be able to help the police when—”
“Oh, I know nothing about it.” The man’s voice shrilled.
“I’m sure you don’t, but the police will want—”
“Toddy,” a woman said, opening the door of a room which was identical with the one where Keith Webber-son lay dead, “did I hear this gentleman say ‘police’?” She was middle-aged, fat as Angela would one day grow fat, blue-eyed, with pebble-lensed glasses. “I—oh. Good gracious me. You’re the Toff.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Toddy, why on earth didn’t you tell me? It’s the Toff—Mr Rollison. So—I did hear police. Oh, my goodness, what’s happened. Is it the Professor? I said all along there was something funny about his going off without letting us know beforehand. I thought he’d gone off with that girl who’s always there.” She peered up at Rollison as at an exhibit. “Normally when he goes away he lets me know in time to arrange for the milk and bread and papers, it’s most unusual—it’s never happened before—for him to make his own arrangements. I was quite
shocked when I saw the note pinned on the door. In fact I was quite put out—wasn’t I, Toddy? I—”
There was the wail of a police siren, in the distance.
“Maud, the police will ask enough questions without you talking like this, do be quiet,” the husband rebuked. “Surely they can’t be here already, it’s only been a few minutes since you telephoned.”
“The police don’t take long, these days,” Rollison remarked. “Thank you for letting me use your telephone.”
“That will be sixpence,” stated the pale-faced Toddy, primly.
Rollison looked blank, and then realised what was meant. “Oh, for the telephone call.” He dug into his pocket for the coin, placed it on the table, and went out. The lift was whining, and he waited at the doorway of Webberson’s flat until it arrived. Three men, two very large and one tall and shin, stepped out. Rollison recognised one of the large men as Chief Inspector Lumley, of the Yard’s murder squad, a man with a big, bovine face and dark brown eyes. He looked a bully and a fool, but was, in fact, one of the kindest and most intelligent men of Rollison’s acquaintance.
“Hallo, Mr. Rollison.” He spoke in a rough voice, with a twang of Cockney.
“How are you, Inspector?”
“I was having a quiet night! Where do you say we should go?”
“In here.” Rollison opened the front door, seeing the door opposite open a few inches. So Toddy, or his wife, was curious. Rollison led the way into the hall, and as the other followed, Lumley sniffed and the tall man said:
“Strewth! Not a new one, then?”
“Will you wait here for a few minutes?” Lumley asked Rollison. “The rest of the team will be arriving soon.”
“Of course. I’ll be here as long as you want me.”
There was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of men—photographers, a doctor, ambulance men, more detectives, some from the Yard and some from the Divisional Headquarters. After a short while there was a strong odour of an air-freshener, which somehow made Rollison more aware of nausea than he had been before. No one took any special notice of him although several recognised him and nodded or spoke. Outside the door was a uniformed policeman, and doubtless others were stationed down below. The police would soon hear if they hadn’t learned already. Rollison, preoccupied with his own worry about Angela, did not find the time hang.
Perhaps an hour after he had first arrived, Lumley came out of the room where the dead man lay.
“Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Mr. Grice will be here in a few minutes.”
Rollison said : The police never admit to being longer than that.”
“Well yes. But it’s sometimes true. Will you tell me what you can—we’ll go into the bedroom, they’ve finished in there. Soon have the body removed, too.” He led the way. “I understand the dead man is Professor Webberson, of London University.”
“And an old friend of mine.”
“Sorry about that, sir.” Lumley’s hard voice contrasted strangely with his almost soothing manner. “How did you get in?”
“I broke in,” answered Rollison simply.
Lumley looked startled. “You broke—” he grinned, his face suddenly attractive. “Just like you to admit it, sir! Why?”
“I couldn’t understand why he didn’t answer the telephone, why he wasn’t taking his lectures and doing his usual work. On the other hand I didn’t want to start a fuss if there was a simple explanation. So I forced the lock.”
“What time was this?”
“As nearly as I can tell you, nine-forty-five.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you telephone from?”
“The flat opposite.”
“Then that’ll be how the Press heard of it so quickly,” remarked Lumley. “They’re getting very impatient down below. Do you want them to know you found the body?”
Rollison smiled easily. “You’re being most considerate. I think on the whole, I do.”
“Then when Mr. Grice has been you can make your statement here and repeat it for the Press,” said Lumley. “I—” there was a tap at the door. “This is probably Mr. Grice.” Aloud, he called : “Come in!” The door opened and another, younger man appeared.
“Mr. Grice is on his way up, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Lumley. “Do sit down, Mr. Raison.”
Rollison moved to the only armchair in the room, sat down and crossed his legs. The police were being almost too well-disposed; this might be because Lumley was naturally a pleasant man, or because he’d had instructions from Grice, or—and perhaps the most likely explanation—because Lumley wanted to lull him into a sense of security which Grice would shatter.
It was very unlikely that they would not at least consider the possibility that he knew much more than he had yet said.
The door opened, and Grice entered.
Now a senior Chief Superintendent at the Yard, Grice was a tall broad, spare-built man. His once brown hair, brushed flat and straight from his forehead, was greying, but his eyes were a clear hazel brown. The skin, stretched over his high-bridged nose, looked pale, almost translucent. On one side of his face was a scar from a booby-trap explosion which had been intended to blind the Toff. That had cemented a bond between them and they had ever since been good friends. But there were times when Grice, the policeman, came into direct conflict with Rollison, the ‘amateur’.
Now, Rollison had a sense of impending conflict. It was in the brisk way in which Grice spoke, the quiet handshake, the intent scrutiny.
“Well, Rolly, what have you been up to?”
“Breaking and entering and finding the body of an old friend,” answered Rollison.
“What made you break in?”
“I was puzzled.”
“Roily,” said Grice, very firmly, “this is murder, it looks like a particularly violent murder, and there is no time at all for half-truths. Why did you break in? What made you suspicious?”
“Bill,” said Rollison. “I had no reason at all to suspect that Keith Webberson was in danger. I was simply puzzled, and—”
“I don’t believe you,” interrupted Grice. “You didn’t come here simply to find out if Webberson was all right. You had a stronger motive. What was it? What puzzled you?”
Here was the moment to tell the whole truth . . . and Rollison still had not made up his mind. But he knew that if he held anything back at this stage, then for the rest of the investigation he would be in conflict with the police, and it was the last thing he wanted.
“I can tell you why I was puzzled,” he said. “The very simple truth. I’d been asked by a Mrs. Naomi Smith, who runs a hostel in Bloomsbury, if I would help her find out what was happening there. She told me that Webberson had suggested that she should get in touch with me. That was a week ago. For a week I’ve been trying in vain to get in touch with him. Then I learned that he hadn’t turned up to give his usual lectures. As an old friend, perhaps his oldest friend, I felt justified in breaking in.”
He saw the quick exchange of glances between Grice and Lumley, as he talked, and felt an increasing disquiet eased only by the certainty that he had been right to tell his story.
“I’m very glad you broke in,” Grice said in a more relaxed voice. “And I didn’t suppose we can blame you for not telling us about the hostel problem. Did you know that two of the residents were missing?”
Slowly, Rollison answered : “Not missing. I knew they’d left.”
“They are missing,” Grice stated flatly. “And we’ve reason to believe that one of them is dead.”
CHAPTER 6
Missing—Or Dead?
ROLLISON placed his hand on the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. He had another mental image of Angela, and he felt sick. Seeing his expression, Lumley and Grice exchanged glances again, and Grice spoke in an almost long-suffering way.
“What have you been up to? What haven’t you told us, yet?”
“Didn’t you
once meet my niece—Angela Pax-Elliott?” asked Rollison.
“The pretty, roly-poly girl?”
“You’ve met her,” said Rollison.
“She plagued me for an hour, asking if there were any short cuts to becoming a woman member of the C.I.D.,” said Grice. “What—my God! Is she a resident there?” Grice was filled with great alarm, and with surprise if not astonishment. After a brief pause, he went on : “And if she was in trouble, why didn’t she go to Lady Gloria at the Marigold Club?”
“In your cynical sense, she is not in trouble,” Rollison replied. “She is satisfying her craving to play detective.”
“Well I’m damned!” exclaimed Lumley.
“Your idea?” Grice asked Rollison, grimly.
“Yes,” admitted Rollison. He moved to the window and looked down into the open space where the cars were parked—and he saw an ambulance move off. This was the one carrying the body, of course: what an end for a man like Webberson. “Yes’ he repeated, “it was my idea, and at the time it seemed a good one. At least I arranged for Angela to telephone me once a day, and immediately if there is any sign of emergency.”
“Did you speak to her tonight?”
“Yes—and she told me Webberson hadn’t been to his normal classes at the hostel, that really sparked me off. Bill—have you any reason to suspect other residents are in danger?”
“No,” said Grice. “But I wouldn’t like a daughter of any friend of mine to be there.”
“Have you any reason to believe that Naomi Smith knows that the girls are missing?”
“She reported them missing,” answered Grice. After a moment, watching the emotions chasing one another over Rollison’s face, he went on : “So she didn’t tell you that.”
“She just said they’d left,” answered Rollison.
It wasn’t really a lie, but how could Naomi Smith have any doubt that by keeping this grave aspect of the problem back, she had been deceiving him? He could see and hear her in his mind’s eye : that beautiful voice and those lovely eyes and the earnestness of pleading. Why hadn’t she told the whole truth? Hadn’t she realised that if she had even hinted that the two girls were missing, he would have been more likely to agree to help? And why hadn’t she told him when she had learned that Angela was going to take up residence—good God! How could any woman with decent instincts allow such a thing to happen?
