by John Creasey
He pressed for a lift, to go down. He was not angry, not even annoyed, and only slightly exasperated; he simply did not see how any good could come of such persistent conflict; and as Gwendoline had not come after him or sent one of her staff, she was apparently in no mood to change. It was a pity, but he had friends in Fleet Street who would undoubtedly give this case the kind of publicity he believed it required.
The automatic lift was some time in arriving. He was the only occupant, and as he strode through the hall he met only messenger girls and doormen. He stepped on to the plaza of near-dazzling white steps, opposite the alley, and turned towards the narrow entrance. As he did so, a motor-scooter engine pop-pop-popped from the right, and round a corner of The Globe building came Gwendoline Fell in all her finery, including the hat, astride her motor-scooter. Rollison stopped, and she drew level with him.
“Please come back,” she pleaded. “I won’t be bitchy again.”
He looked at the absurd hat, and his determination wavered.
He could impose conditions; he could complain or explain or ask her to listen to reason. Instead, he found himself smiling.
“Whatever you are, you’ll be. But yes, I’ll come back. Shall I come with you, or—”
Gwendoline gave the stand of the scooter a most unlady-like kick, and got off. She raised a hand to one of The Globe employees. “George will look after this, won’t you George,” she said, then strode along at Rollison’s side, back to the building.
None of her staff looked up this time; only their scissors seemed to snip with very much greater vigour. Inside the main office, Gwendoline went back to her chair, tapping the arm of Rollison’s as she passed it.
“How can I help?” she asked.
“Tell the world in your column tomorrow that Sir Douglas has a heart of gold and you have it on good authority that he has given way to the angels, who may stay in possession of the house.”
“Has he?” asked Gwendoline.
“Can I speak strictly off the record?”
“Yes.”
“He is not going to renew the lease of Smith Hall but he is going to give them another house.”
“Give?” echoed Gwendoline, her eyes rounding. “Give,” repeated Rollison solemnly.
“And I can’t say that?” sighed Gwendoline. “I am only flesh and blood, you know.”
“He told me in strict confidence. And even if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t want you to use the full facts yet. Isn’t the truth enough to make your story sensational? Before the rat incident he was adamantly hostile, so he had a remarkable change of heart.”
“He certainly did,” agreed Gwendoline. “Can you be sure that if I tell the story, as you ask me to, it will get the results you want?”
“I’m sure there’s a good chance of it doing so. I think there will be more attacks, but that house and those girls will be as closely protected as royalty. I don’t believe, this time, there will be the slightest chance of the attackers either doing harm or getting away.”
They sat quite still, their eyes meeting in a silent chal-lenge. At last Gwendoline gave a decisive little nod.
“I’ll do it your way,” she said. “May I add one plea?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can I know what help you’re going to get?”
Rollison chuckled.
“Yes, gladly. Meet me at ten o’clock tonight outside the entrance to Aldgate East Underground Station, crash helmet, motor-scooter and all.”
“I’ll be there,” said Gwendoline with relish. “I will certainly be there! Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“At this moment, check at the Yard to see if Super-intendent Grice is in and if he’ll see me right away,” said Rollison.
Before he had finished speaking she was lifting the telephone, and he listened as she spoke crisply and precisely: at the desk she seemed much more mature. She replaced the receiver, and nodded with satisfaction.
“I understand that he wants to see you,” she said, and this time the glint in her eyes was mischievous. “I hope you’ll be free to meet me tonight.”
* * *
Grice was in his bright new office at the bright new building which would never, for Rollison, capture the romantic appeal of the old Scotland Yard. About a quarter of the size of Gwendoline Fell’s, there was all glass in one wall. The others, decently opaque, were hung with photographs of police football and cricket teams, and long-pensioned-off senior officers. Grice motioned to a chair.
“What’s the latest news about Slatter?” Rollison asked.
“He’s now at the Moorfields Eye Hospital,” answered Grice. “They’re checking for glass splinters. He’s still in a state of traumatic shock, and it could last for days. I’m told you were present when the Miller girl admitted throwing the brick.”
“I was,” said Rollison. “I was also there when the brick came through the window, and if I hadn’t shown how alarmed I was, Slatter wouldn’t have looked round—and then all he would have got would have been splinters of glass in his scalp. With hair as thick as his I doubt if that would have amounted to much more than a few scratches. Are you going to charge Anne Miller?”
“Yes—I’ve no choice. I’m going to pick her up this evening, after she’s finished her motherly chores, and ask for the case to be heard early in the morning,” Grice answered. “And I shan’t oppose bail. That will give you a week to find a way of getting her off!” Grice spoke almost bitterly. “Do you yet know what’s behind it all?”
“I only wish I did,” Rollison said, “I was hoping you would have an idea. Do you know anything more about the rats in the children’s pen?”
“No.”
“No trace of the assailant?”
“None.”
“No clues as to the deaths of Brown and Webberson and the two girls?”
Grice hesitated, and then said : “Well, yes and no. It’s beginning to look as if they knew both Winifred de Vaux and Iris Jay a little more intimately than is usual between professor and pupil.”
“Hmm. Do you know if any of the other girls were associated with any of the sponsors?”
“As far as I’ve been able to trace, none at all. Nimmo is married and has a very good reputation, Carfax is incapacitated because of his paralysis, and Offenberger is courting an Austrian woman who keeps house for him.
But I’ve no evidence at all to show why Brown and Webberson should be killed, or why Mrs. Smith should have been atttacked. One obvious possibility is that they all shared some knowledge which the murderer doesn’t want divulged. Has Mrs. Smith given you any hint?”
“No,” answered Rollison, truthfully.
“Have you turned anything up?” Grice asked.
“No,” said Rollison again. “All I know is—” he told Grice all he could, including what he had arranged with Gwendoline Fell, and he told him of Slatter’s offer of a house. Then he left, a little after half-past five, with only one thought in mind.
He needed a talk with Naomi Smith, who might know more, much more, than she had yet admitted.
CHAPTER 16
“No,” Says Naomi Smith
“No,” said Naomi flatly. “I know absolutely nothing more than I’ve told you.” She looked so earnest and so plain, so homely and so wholesome; throughout the crisis she had maintained her outward composure remarkably. Now, her make-up was fresh, with just enough lipstick to make the best of her full lips, and she had a scarcely discernible shade of eye-shadow, so that her chestnut brown eyes seemed to have a slight sheen over them.
Rollison thought of Slatter’s injured eye.
“Naomi,” Rollison said, almost harshly, “if you are protecting someone—”
“But I am not,” she insisted. Her voice had a tone of restrained indignation. “How can you think that I would allow such terrible things to happen in order to protect any individual? It is unthinkable. Four—four of my friends, brutally murdered. Sir Douglas perhaps blinded —no, Mr. Rollison, I know nothing that could h
elp. I am at the edge of a dreadful precipice. All I have fought for and believed in, all I have tried to do, is faced with abso-lute disaster. If I knew a thing—if I had the slightest suspicion against any individual—I would tell you. But I know nothing.”
Without a pause, Rollison asked : “Did you know that Keith Webberson was friendly with Winifred de Vaux? —so friendly, in fact, that he had a large photograph of her displayed in his flat? And that Professor Brown—”
She looked at him furiously. “How knowledge of these girls’ misfortune distorts everything they do! Is no man to be their friend without the grossest interpretation being put on it?” Alarm added to the brightness of her eyes, and her lips trembled.
“Do—do the police think as you do?”
Rollison shrugged.
“Will it be made public?”
Whether some bright newspaperman will find it out and tell the story, I don’t know. It wouldn’t be surprising.”
“No,” she said in a low-pitched voice. “Obviously it would be exactly the kind of scandal the newspapers would glory in. And that does mean the end of this house and all I’ve tried to do. You must see that in a place like this, rumour that it is little more than a brothel and I the madame, are always possible. However dormant the suggestion, it is there, ready at the slightest excuse to be taken up by a certain section of society. And Douglas warned—” She broke off, and closed her eyes as if suffering from a spasm of acute pain.
The “Douglas’ came out with unexpected familiarity, strangely at variance with the formality of her previous references to Slatter.
“What did Sir Douglas warn you about?” asked Roll-son gently.
“That the house and I would get this reputation,” she said, opening her eyes. “We are old friends, Mr. Rollison, although until I came here we hadn’t met for many years. When I first knew that he owned this house I went to see him, asking for his help—but he had no sympathy at all with what I was trying to do. He was furiously angry because he had signed the lease without being told what it was going to be used for. It—it was not a very pleasant meeting,” Naomi finished, on a note both saddening and dreary.
“How often have you met since?”
“Only occasionally.”
“Socially?”
“Once or twice. He—he is a very good man, Mr. Rollison, and he did not believe that because we differed fundamentally on this aspect of society—I have always believed that unmarried mothers and illegitimate children should be given special consideration, because of what they inevitably miss, having no husband, and no father—we should not remain friends.” She raised her hands and dropped them again. “Douglas maintained that if you broke the rules of the society you lived in, you should accept the consequence. I can see his point of view, of course.” Unexpectedly, her voice sharpened. “Can you, Mr. Rollison?”
“I can see both points of view,” parried Rollison.
“A friend to both sides is said to be a friend to none,” Naomi said a little bitterly. “Nevertheless, I still need your help. Mr. Rollison, can you help Anne? I know she shouldn’t have done what she did but it was under terrible provocation, and I am sure she hadn’t the slightest intention of injuring Douglas.”
“I can get a good lawyer to speak for her and ask for bail,” said Rollison.
“Oh, if only you will!”
“I’ll have a word with Professor Nimmo and make sure I’m not treading on any corns,” promised Rollison. “Are the girls going to meet together tonight?”
“Yes,” said Naomi, and caught her breath. “I think at least half of them will. leave at once.” She gave herself a little shake and rose to her feet. Her movements and her manner had become more decisive, as if for the moment, at least, she had done with brooding and with being sorry for herself. “I’m very grateful for all you are doing. Will you come this evening?”
“If I may.”
“I don’t think you can do anything to help them,” said Naomi, “but you will at least see and understand the mood of the girls. It’s so very sad,” she went on, in her brisker voice, “only a few weeks ago everything appeared to be going so well.” She led the way to the door, and then touched the back of his hand. “Mr. Rollison, please understand and believe one thing. Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown did not take advantage of their position as sponsors. There was a very real friendship in both cases.”
Friendship, love, or simply lust, thought Rollison grimly, neither men had deserved to be murdered; nor had either of the girls.
And now Naomi Smith was telling the truth, which he wanted and hoped to be the case, or she was a consummate liar.
As he walked to his car, parked further away this time, he saw Guy Slatter walking towards him. He stopped as Guy drew up, aware of the powerful physique and the rugged good looks of the young man, who was so like his uncle.
“How is Sir Douglas?” Rollison asked.
“I’m assured there’s no permanent damage to the eyes,” said Guy, harshly. “No thanks to you. Now do you think those little bitches are worth protecting? If I had my way I’d send ‘em all to a whore-house I.”
“You know,” said Rollison, “that doesn’t do you any credit.”
“If you’re still on the side of that mob, you’re a bloody fool,” growled Guy. “You do-gooders make me sick!” He strode past, head held high, and Rollison walked more slowly towards his car. As he drew near, he thought he saw a shadowy movement in the back. All thought of the Slatters and the girls vanished. If someone was in the back of his car, it meant trouble—and a single sledge hammer blow would put an end to his interest in crime forever. He glanced down as he drew close, and saw a rug move. He opened the driving door, but instead of getting in he simply leaned inside, and said roughly :
“But that rug off you, and show your hands. And hurry!”
There was a convulsive movement—and then the rug was pushed off and two hands appeared; even he did not think there was the slightest chance that they were big enough to hold a sledge hammer. They were small and plump and very familiar.
“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” breathed Angela. “Guy came out to look for me. Just get in and pretend you’re alone. We can talk when we’re at Gresham Terrace or anywhere you want to take me. But please hurry,” she pleaded. “I’ve something I’m desperately anxious to tell you. I think I may have solved the case!”
Rollison heard all this as he drew his head back, got into the car in the normal way, sat back and touched the wheel.
“You can tell me as we go along,” he ordered.
He pushed the self-starter—and on the first instant of pressure, the front of the car blew up.
One moment he had only the thought of Angela and what she had to say in his mind; the next, the metal of the bonnet bulged upwards and upwards, there was a vivid red flash and then leaping flames, and as the windscreen cracked into a thousand tiny fragments, a roar and a blast.
A few pieces of glass fell over his knees.
The car rocked, as wildly as if it were a small boat in high seas. The flames rose higher and dark smoke billowed, and through the smoke Rollison saw a man reeling back, hand over his eyes, and he had a fierce and frightening recollection of Sir Douglas Slatter’s cut and bleeding face. But he could not move; in those few seconds he was too shocked and numbed. He saw other figures, men and women, hurrying towards the reeling man, was aware of cars pulled up in the road, saw a man leap from one with a small fire-extinguisher in his hand.
The sight seemed to revive Rollison. He pulled his own extinguisher from its clips beside the brake, and turned to look at Angela, suddenly alarmed lest she was hurt. She looked more startled than scared, her eyes and mouth open wide and round. He opened his door and jumped out, opened her door and said : “Get out, quick!” and strode to the front of the car. The bent and broken bonnet was now a mass of foam, there was an evil stench of the chemical and a smell also of burning. But the flames were out, and a little man with the remains of a h
uge cigar still jutting out beneath his hooked nose, was lowering his extinguisher.
“I got it,” he said with satisfaction.
“I can’t even begin to thank you,” Rollison said, looking towards the once reeling man who was standing in the middle of a small group.
“Who wants thanks?” the Good Samaritan said. “You’d do the same for me. You okay, sir?”
“I’m—yes, thanks. I’m fine. I hope—”
“You in a hurry to go any place? I’ll be glad to take you.”
“I’d better wait for the police to come here,” said Rolli-
son, “but if you could take my passenger—”
“Sure, sure, be glad to,” the cigar-smoker said. “That’s if you’re okay, Miss.”
It was not until Angela was being driven away in a sky-blue Jaguar that Rollison wondered whether he should have let her go, whether the helpful motorist could possibly have known who had put the explosive in the car. It was too late to stop her, and a police car was already pulling up, while a policeman was standing in the road, urging the traffic on. Very little had been tossed into the air, the metal of the bonnet was too strong. The man nearest the explosion had covered his face in time to escape the full effect of a billow of steam from the burst radiator, and was comparatively unhurt.
The engine, which had taken the full force of the explosion, was wrecked. Oil was dripping out of the sump, and there was a strong smell of petrol.
Wired to the base of the self-starter was a scrap of red cardboard.
“So they used dynamite,” remarked a policeman. It was the fair-haired Detective Sergeant Adams, who had seen Anne Miller. He shook his head lugubriously. “A chance in a million, Mr. Rollison, that you’re not in hospital by now.”
“If not in a morgue,” added Rollison lightly. “Sergeant, need I stay? I didn’t see who put it there, but you may find a passer-by who noticed someone. May I leave the rest to you?”
