A Note From the Accused?

by John Creasey

  ‘Not since ‘e ducked,’ admitted Ebbutt. ‘I got to say it’s a funny fing, Mr. Ar. I thought ‘e was sittin’ pretty, waitin’ for the flap to blow over.’

  ‘He’s been hard on the run, and he’s dead beat.’

  ‘You know what these gangs are,’ said Ebbutt, with a shrug. ‘‘E bumped Flash off; now someone else comes along an’ ‘as it in for ‘im. Flash ‘ad a lot o’ friends. If you arst me, Mellor killed Galloway, and the boys knew ‘e’d never get away wiv it, so they turned ‘im aht. That’s abaht the size of it, Mr. Ar. I don’t mind admitting I feel bad, but—well, if the missus knoo it was Mellor—’

  ‘Don’t tell her,’ advised Rollison. ‘Just say that the stranger isn’t coming, and look after the other job for me. Waleski is important. He’s been staying at the Oxford Palace Hotel, so he may be a newcomer. He’s about five feet six, Block Jensen’s build, with black eyelashes that look as if they’ve been stuck on. Black, heavily oiled hair, with a bald patch about the size of a tea-cup. Got all that?’

  ‘If I get a whisper you’ll know abaht it, Mr. Ar.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘Now I’d better be off, there’s a lot to do.’

  With the police and the voice of the East End calling the same tune about Jim Mellor, it was going to be hard going. When Rollison got into the car, the group of people watching him were puzzled and silent. He looked much as he had when he had tackled Waleski at Judith’s flat: bleak, uncompromising, aggressive, even angry. There was a rustle of comment when he drove off, for Bill Ebbutt came to the door and watched him, but Rollison didn’t glance round. So the whisper spread that there had been trouble between the Toff and Bill Ebbutt.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NEAT TRICK

  Policemen whom Rollison passed did not salute or smile, but just watched him. The change in their demeanour was so marked that he knew that word had already been spread among them, that he was to be watched and his movements reported – and that the official attitude was hostile. He drew up outside Aldgate Station, between two barrow-boys with their barrows piled up with fruit, and walked to the station entrance, making for a telephone booth. A constable saw him, but took no notice until he was inside the box; then the man made a note on a pad which he took from his breast pocket.

  Rollison dropped in his two pennies, and dialled Doc Willerby’s number. Willerby answered himself.

  ‘How’s the patient?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘He’ll do,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot more about him than I knew before.’

  ‘I wondered when you’d get round to that. Changed your mind?’

  ‘No. But if you’d rather be shot of him right away, just say the word.’

  ‘He mustn’t be moved again tonight,’ said Willerby. ‘If the police get round to me they’ll have to take over. If they don’t—I don’t know who the man is.’

  ‘That’s sweeter music than you know.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d cut much ice with Mellor in the East End; Ebbutt was your only chance. Doesn’t he feel buccaneer enough?’

  Rollison laughed. ‘Don’t forget he’s reformed. What’s the best time to collect Mellor in the morning?’

  ‘Before nine o’clock.’

  ‘Right, thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

  He rang off, nodded at the constable as he stepped from the box, and went more cheerfully towards his car. The interview with Ebbutt had shaken him: he had taken Ebbutt’s aid for granted. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had heard of the trouble in the Dimond gang, but not the name of the new leader. He had traced Mellor through his Army record and his foster-parents, and had only made cursory inquiries into his post-war record. He knew that Mellor had his own small flat, played a lot of tennis, and was a go-ahead manager of a small printing-firm in the north-west of London.

  The new information couldn’t be ignored, though the Mellor he had traced seemed to be a completely different man from the Mellor Ebbutt knew. Had he stumbled upon a new Jekyll and Hyde?

  When he turned into Gresham Terrace a heavily-built man was opposite Number 25g, where he had his flat; the man was from the Yard, although Rollison couldn’t recall his name. Rollison nodded, and received a blank stare in return. He let himself into the house, and then went back to the pavement to survey the street and find out whether there was another Yard man about. He didn’t see one.

  Gresham Terrace, near Piccadilly, was a wide road, with stately terraced houses on either side – a sharp contrast to the mean streets from which he had just come. The house was near a corner. Three shallow stone steps led up to a small porch. The entrance hall was long and narrow, and carpeted from wall to wall. The first flight of stairs was also carpeted – the higher flights were of bare stone. He walked up thoughtfully, and when he reached the top landing, which served only his flat, the door opened and Jolly appeared.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Hallo, Jolly. Everyone here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if you mean Miss Lorne and Mr. Higginbottom.’

  ‘I do.’

  Rollison passed into the square hall, off which led all five rooms of the flat. Immediately opposite the landing was the living-room, and he heard voices as that door opened, and Snub beamed at him.

  ‘All in one piece?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘I say, you look a bit grimmish about the gills,’ said Snub.

  ‘Just thoughtful,’ said Rollison. ‘Something to drink, Jolly.’

  He went into the room, and saw Judith standing by an armchair near the window. He was struck by her pale face and troubled eyes, and wondered just how much she knew about Mellor’s reputation, whether he had been wrong in his first good opinion of her. She wore a black two-piece suit with a plain white blouse; it would serve as mourning. When he smiled at her, she raised her hands, as if to ward off an impending blow. Immediately he was angry with himself, for he had forgotten the anxiety which she must be feeling. Snub must have told her something of the truth.

  ‘Is he—’ she began, but couldn’t go on.

  ‘He’ll pull through,’ said Rollison.

  She caught her breath. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m quite sure; I’ve just telephoned the doctor.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  She put her hands behind her, groping for the chair, and Snub slipped quickly across the room and helped her to sit down. She leaned back, her eyes closed, and Rollison knew that she was fighting against tears. He knew more than that: she believed in Mellor, and she had told the truth, as she knew it. He did not doubt that again throughout the case.

  ‘Whisky for the lady,’ Snub said, and came close to Rollison. ‘Her nerves have been stretched as tight as a drum. You haven’t just tried to cheer her up, have you?’

  ‘No, Mellor will pull through.’

  ‘Fine! A very lucky young man, in my opinion,’ said Snub. ‘How’s everything?’

  ‘Bad.’ Rollison took a whisky-and-soda from the tray which Jolly held in front of him, Snub took another and carried it to the girl. ‘I want you a minute,’ Rollison added, and went with Jolly into the kitchen.

  It was small, spotless, white-tiled; the pans shone, everything was in its appointed place.

  Jolly closed the door.

  ‘I hope there has been no trouble, sir.’

  ‘We’re in a jam, but we’ll get out of it,’ Rollison said.

  ‘Nothing really serious. How did you get on with the police? Did they learn anything about Asham Street?’

  ‘Not from us, sir.’

  ‘Good! Were they difficult?’

  ‘Insistent, but I think they believed all that we told them.’

  ‘They won’t in future. Grice is on the war-path, and there is a general feeling that Mellor is a real bad hat. What’s all this about Waleski?’

  Jolly said solemnly: ‘It was really somewhat ridiculous, sir. The man was still in the kitchen when the police arrived, and he offered no violenc
e. He accused you of assaulting him, and even preferred a charge. I made no comment, thinking you would best be able to deal with the situation. The police took the gun which was found in the flat – his gun, I believe. Miss Lorne told them about the man who had attacked her, and also about the note which she received. There was some annoyance displayed when the note could not be found.’

  Rollison laughed. ‘They can have it; run it over for prints first, Jolly, and see whether we’ve anything in our private collection. Then ring Grice up and apologise because I absent-mindedly slipped it into my pocket.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And test this other note for prints, too.’ Rollison pulled out of his pocket the letter he had picked up in Mellor’s room. ‘But don’t let the police have that. It’s Exhibit A for the private collection. Very likely you’ll find no prints except Mellor’s and mine. If there are any others, they’ll probably be the same on each.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ promised Jolly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I hope the situation isn’t really grave,’ said Jolly earnestly. ‘It has already become a very different affair from what we first anticipated. I suppose—’ Jolly paused, as if diffident, but actually to give greater emphasis to what he had to say, and Rollison eyed him expectantly. ‘I suppose there is no doubt at all, sir, that James Mellor is Sir Frederick Arden’s son? Because if you are wrong in that assumption, then it would greatly alter the complexion of the case, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Jolly, startled.

  ‘The complexion of the case is the same – Judith Lorne having a rough time, funny business in one of the East End gangs, and a warning-off both by Grice and Bill Ebbutt. If you mean it’s no longer a gentle inquiry to soothe Sir Frederick Arden’s feelings, you’re right; but that changed when we knew Mellor was wanted for Galloway’s murder, didn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it did,’ conceded Jolly. ‘May I say I hope you won’t take too many chances, sir.’

  ‘We’ll have a chat about it later,’ said Rollison. ‘I want to hide Mellor. Ebbutt won’t help and he can’t come here. Any idea?’

  Jolly said: ‘That makes it very difficult.’

  ‘Meaning, no ideas,’ Rollison smiled. ‘All right, Jolly, I think I know where we can park him. There are a few don’ts for the list. Don’t let the police know that I’m doing anything for Sir Frederick Arden. Tell Miss Lorne not to mention the name Arden to them. They won’t necessarily tie it up with Sir Frederick. Don’t say anything to the Press if anyone comes or rings up; don’t let her leave the flat, and don’t leave it yourself until I get back.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Are there any positive instructions?’

  Rollison chuckled. ‘You do me more good than a bottle of champagne! Yes. Tell Snub that I want him to go East and find out whether there’s any talk in Asham Street, whether the police have discovered there was funny business at Number 51. He’s to report immediately if the police have got that far. And if anyone wants me, you don’t know where I am.’

  ‘Where will you be, sir?’

  ‘At Pulham Gate,’ said Rollison; ‘and I hope to come straight back here.’

  He spent ten minutes talking to Judith and trying to reassure her. He judged that she was dangerously near a collapse: the strain of the past month had taken a heavy toll of her nervous resistance, and today’s shock had shaken her badly. She presented a problem in herself, the greater because he knew that she had no close relatives and was dependent entirely on her own resources. When he left for 7, Pulham Gate, where Sir Frederick Arden lived, he was in a pessimistic mood; there was so much he didn’t know and couldn’t see.

  At least the police didn’t follow him.

  Dusk was falling when he reached Kensington, the lamps in the wide thoroughfare of Pulham Gate were lit, and over this district of large, pale-grey houses and private squares there was the hush of evening. Lights showed at some of the tall windows, and Rollison switched on the sidelights of the Rolls-Bentley before he left the car. He looked up and down, almost by habit, and the only person near by was a policeman. He saw the man coming towards him, and was puzzled, without knowing why. He turned to the steps leading to the front door of Number 7, and the policeman called out: ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He had a reedy voice.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Aren’t you Mr. Richard Rollison? The Honourable Richard Rollison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said the policeman, in a tone of great satisfaction. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to come along with me, sir. I hope you won’t give any trouble.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Rollison. The reedy voice and the puzzling fact which he couldn’t quite place, took on a greater significance. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘They’ll tell you at the station.’

  ‘Which station?’

  ‘Now don’t be awkward,’ said the constable; ‘it won’t do you no good.’ He glanced past Rollison, who heard a car coming towards him. ‘Here’s the squad car, there’s a call out for you. Don’t be awkward,’ he repeated.

  He now sounded almost pleading – and the warning note rang loudly in Rollison’s mind.

  The car pulled up.

  Rollison glanced at it. There were two men inside, and they made no attempt to get out. They were small men, and the warning became a clarion call. These were not policemen.

  The man in uniform gripped his arm.

  ‘Here we are, so don’t give us no trouble. It will only be the worse for you if you do.’

  ‘So this is a pinch,’ said Rollison, mildly.

  ‘That’s it,’ said the constable. He pulled Rollison towards the car – a pre-war Morris of a kind which the police had used for the Flying Squad, but had turned in years ago – and opened the door. One of the men – the man next to the driver – looked round. ‘Inside, please.’

  Rollison lowered his head, started to get in – and then moved his left arm and tipped the heads of the two men forward. Their hats fell off, and he gripped their heads and cracked them together. The crack resounded; one man gasped, and the other made a curious grunting sound. Rollison back-heeled, catching the constable on the shin, and as the man let him go, he darted back and straightened up. The policeman was swaying on one leg, and putting his right hand into his pocket at the same time; there was an evil glint in his eyes. Rollison swung a left to his chin, jolting his arm when the blow connected.

  He heard nothing of the next approaching car until brakes squealed. He glanced round, to see a gleaming American model, sleek and streamlined back and front, pulling in behind the Morris. A woman was at the wheel – a lovely creature. The thing which most surprised him was her composure: she showed no sign of alarm.

  ‘Stay there!’ he called. ‘Stay where you are!’

  She opened the door of the car and swung slim, nylon-sheathed legs on to the pavement. The policeman had recovered, but he made no further attack, simply rushed to the Morris. The engine was turning over, the men inside had recovered from the collision. As the constable bent down to get inside, the car began to move.

  ‘Aren’t you going to stop them?’ asked the woman.

  She was tall. As she reached Rollison, he was aware of a delicate perfume, of a pair of gleaming, beautiful blue eyes – yes, a lovely creature. His hand throbbed and he was short of breath.

  ‘No,’ he said, shortly.

  ‘The police—’ she began, only to break off.

  ‘Wasn’t he a policeman?’ Rollison asked.

  ‘What is all this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Rehearsals for a fancy-dress ball,’ said Rollison. ‘It’s being photographed – the camera is on the roof.’

  She glanced upwards, while the Morris swung round a corner, engine roaring.

  There was a sharp edge to the woman’s voice when she spoke next.

  ‘Are you playing the fool?’

  ‘Yes. In fact this was a hold-up. Thank you for coming in the nick
of time.’ He smiled more freely, and there was laughter in his tone. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  She drew back.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, but suddenly her expression changed; she came nearer, as if trying to study his face more clearly. ‘Are you—Mr. Rollison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, has this anything to do with—’ she looked at Number 7—’the work you are doing for my uncle.’

  ‘I doubt it. I always try to do too many things at once, and sometimes they overlap.’

  He had placed her as Arden’s niece, of whom he had heard, but whom he had met only once, and that some time ago at a Charity Ball. He knew her by reputation as a leader of the Smart Set which had defied austerity; as one of the beauties of the day, and a woman of keen intelligence and incomparable selfishness. He hadn’t realised that she knew he was working for Arden, but didn’t think much about that then. As he waited for her to speak again, he was thinking about the welcome he’d received, the speed of the attempt to kidnap him, and all the implications.

  But she gave him little time to think.

  ‘Aren’t you going to send for the police?’

  ‘No one’s hurt,’ he said, ‘and I probably asked for it.’

  They eyed each other for some seconds, and a youth passed, staring at them as he went by. It was darker now. The dusk filmed her face and gave it an ethereal glow. She was perfectly dressed, her poise and carriage were delightful – and he felt that her reputation for keen intelligence was not falsely founded.

  ‘If I hear aright, one day you will probably ask for more than you want to get,’ she said dryly. ‘Were you going to see my uncle, or coming away?’

  ‘Going.’

  ‘When I left this afternoon he was very poorly. I’m not sure that you ought to see him. The doctors have warned him against excitement, and you always seem to excite him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s my baneful influence.’

  ‘This is not funny. He is a very sick man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison. ‘Yes.’ They still faced each other, and he was reminded of the challenge which he had seen in Waleski’s eyes. ‘I think he’ll pull through, though, with luck and a fair deal.’