by John Creasey
“Oh,” said Rollison, carefully, “these things get around.” The Superintendent’s words had made it abundantly dear that there was some trouble on similar lines to that for which Charmion had been sentenced.
If he declared that he had no idea of what Grice was talking about probably Grice would give him no information. Yet he wanted to know what it was all about; he convinced himself that it was necessary for him to know.
The taxi stopped outside the Carillon; Rollison climbed out and was paying the driver off while Grice slammed the door when a man on a bicycle passed the cab and tossed something in the air. It was small and round, and it caught Rollison unawares, striking him on the temple as he heard the cabby’s exclamation and another, urgent and alarmed, from Grice.
Chapter Five
Not Lethal
Liquid splashed against the Toff ’s temple and ran down his cheek and his neck between his skin and the collar. The impact of the missile was light; it just burst against him and then sagged down, the liquid dripping from it.
Grice gripped Rollison’s arm and peered at his streaming eyes. Rollison opened them quickly and blinked the stuff away. He shook the liquid from his face as best he could, then dabbed himself with a handkerchief. A little had trickled into his mouth,
“I think it’s water.”
“Water!” exclaimed Grice.
“Yes. Did I pay you, cabby?”
“Er—yessir, thank you.” Startled eyes surveyed Rollison’s dripping face, and then, from force of habit, the driver drove off.
Rollison led the way into the Club, signed Grice in, and hurried down to the cloakroom. Neither man spoke. Grice had retrieved the sodden cloth, which had been wrapped outside a paper bag in turn containing the water. It was a childish contraption, a booby-trap without subtlety.
“We’d better be sure it is water,” said Grice.
“Oh, it is,” said Rollison, drying his face in front of the mirror. “I would have known by now if it had been anything else. You might call it a weapon, but it wasn’t lethal. In fact”—he threw the towel into a basket and took another to rub his collar—“it’s in keeping with all that’s happened. Someone has decided that a war of nerves is going to yield results.”
“But, confound it!” exclaimed Grice, who rarely used even the mildest of expletives, and because of which was regarded with some awe by his subordinates and was not wholly trusted by his equals. “Who on earth would want to throw water over you? Where’s the sense in it?”
“Tactics,” said Rollison, “vide Charmion.”
Grice said: “There isn’t the slightest evidence that Charmion is behind this business, and you ought to know that from the beginning. I know it’s remarkably like the Charmion affair—”
“Another League of Physical Beauty?” asked Rollison.
“You could call it that.”
“A galaxy of neurotic talent?”
“Neurotic, yes,” said Grice. “Some evidence of drugs – but there’s no need to tell you that.”
“Oh, there’s ample need to tell me everything,” said Rollison. “I think I’m all right now; let’s go upstairs, or the dining-room will be crowded out.” He led the way to the first floor, but there was plenty of room and they were able to get a table for two, near a window and a serving-trolley, so that no one would overhear them easily. They ordered soup and steak pie, Rollison a tankard of beer and Grice grapefruit squash.
“Bill,” said Rollison, as the waitress went away, “I’ve a confession to make.” He smiled into Grice’s eyes and broke a roll. “I knew nothing at all about your new League, or whatever you’re calling it, until five minutes ago.”
Grice said with acerbity: “There’s no need to—”
“It’s gospel truth.”
“But Charmion—”
“Yes, I’m worried about Charmion and I think he’s up to tricks, but I hadn’t any idea that he’s mixed up with your current trouble. I know you can’t believe it, but facts are facts!” Rollison ate a piece of bread. “The Scarlet Pimpernel has nothing on him! He looks in here, he sends messages there, he writes in invisible ink, he approaches me through friends and acquaintances, and he throws water over me. Ah, beer!” He raised a tankard brought to the table and Grice sipped cautiously at his grapefruit squash. “Confusion to Charmion!” he said. Would it help if I told you all of it?”
“Yes,” said Grice, emphatically.
Rollison told the story, filling in the outline which he had already given, and bringing it up to date. They had finished the soup by the time he reached the end, and the waitress was at Rollison’s elbow with the entree. When she had gone, Grice put both elbows on the table and, with steam from vegetables rising in his face, said slowly: “That’s absolutely everything?”
“I haven’t another particle of information,” said Rollison. “I can only guess that Charmion is trying to goad me into some great folly.” He smiled. “The only really ugly part about it is Hilda Brent’s affair. That’s not nice. You don’t remember the report, I suppose?”
“Vaguely,” said Grice. “There have been similar attacks, of course. They’re difficult to trace, but we’ve prevented them from getting too numerous. Y’know, Rollison”—he started to eat—“I find it hard to believe that the attack on the girl was made so that you would hear of it and connect it with Charmion. It sounds too fantastic.”
“Charmion is, and always will be, fantastic,” said Rollison. “You didn’t know him personally, did you? No. A pity; you might have assessed him accurately. No one at the Yard did, and some were half-inclined to believe that he was innocent. The expression often used is personal magnetism! Grice, Charmion first of all made sure that a casual remark would be passed on to me, to make me bring him to mind, and he guessed that my first reaction would be to find out what was happening to Hilda – the chief witness for the prosecution on the drug case. He didn’t do it himself, of course; it started a long time before he was released, so he made the arrangements with someone working for him outside. And this someone might be your man, whom it won’t be easy to connect with Chairman.” He smiled. “Feeling any happier than you were?”
“I am not,” said Grice. “Rolly, if anyone else had told me this I would have called it a fairy story and left it at that.”
“Charmion’s a fairy-story name,” murmured Rollison.
“As it is—what can I do about it?”
“You can check up on all that’s happened to Hilda and her children; there’s a chance of getting results that way. The thing is, I can spare the time just now. I don’t like Charmion, and I think he is preparing a devil’s brew in which I’m one of the most potent ingredients. You should know that I won’t find it easy to remain idle.”
“I can’t blame you. Just what’s in your mind?”
Rollison shrugged.
“Charmion would brood over this while in jail and be prepared to wait and work for revenge – but not revenge alone. He may have marked me down – or Hilda, or anyone who had a part in his fall, but we should be incidental. Notable incidents, perhaps, but not the beginning and the end of his ambitions. He might”—Rollison eyed Grice steadily—“conceivably have some grandiose notion of getting revenge on society, the system which sent him to seven years of okum-picking and stone-breaking. A lot of people are bitter after seven years on the moor.”
“Aren’t you putting it a bit extravagantly?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rollison, soberly. “If I haven’t misjudged him, Charmion will be burning with a hatred which will get hotter every day. He’s starting mildly, but he has a long-term plan. Your bother may be part of it – we’ll see. As for me—” he smiled crookedly—“I am going to fall for the bait. Charmion wants me to go after him, and I’m going. As I said, I think you should know.”
Grice eyed him without speaking.
“Because,” continued Rollison, “Charmion is going to try to lead me up the garden with a large hole at the bottom of it, filled with the necessary spikes and sharp
knives. That’s an allegory,” he added, brightly. “I mean—”
“You mean that you think he’s going to try to make you fall foul of the law?” suggested Grice, slowly.
“Now who could have put it neater than that?” demanded Rollison. “Yes, that will be Charmion’s most likely plan of campaign. I sent him away, he’ll try to send me away. That won’t be all, there’ll be something else. How’s your thinking cap these days?”
Grice shrugged. “It works, sometimes.”
“I’ve an uncomfortable feeling that it will have to work at double pressure,” said Rollison, “but that will settle itself. Now, what about your own pet problem?”
Grice smiled. “Now that you’ve wormed most of it out of me, you may as well know the rest.”
The waitress came up and offered them a choice of three equally appetising sweets, over which decision Rollison took much time. He was finding it difficult to be really interested in what Grice had to say – it would matter only if it could be traced to Charmion.
“I’m working on patchwork evidence, Rolly, I thought I had something this morning, but it flopped. There was a girl on a drug-addict charge. Not serious – she’s only been toying with it, and a sharp lesson will probably put her right. We shall watch her, of course. The significant thing—as I thought at first—is that she’s a member of a little club in Port Street.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Rollison.
“Why that exclamation?” demanded Grice.
“The headquarters of Charmion’s League was in Port Street,” Rollison said, “but, of course, that’s only coincidence. Yes?”
“It’s an innocent-seeming place,” Grice told him. “Physical training as much as anything else – gymnastics, Turkish baths. It’s run by the people who run a dancing club in Littleton Place. The dancing club is very proper, to all outward appearances. Ballroom dancing, a good tutor, lessons in etiquette – the usual incubator for social aspirants.”
Rollison frowned. “In the fifth year of this war?”
“Of course, that’s the snag,” said Grice. “It’s hard to believe that it’s all it seems. It isn’t, either! There’s a higher price club, where the dancing is considerably less formal, probably a bit orgiastic – but there’s nothing we can really do about it. I think there may be a higher echelon still, but I can’t be sure. The thing is, Rolly, one or two of the members of both clubs have started taking drugs. We haven’t been able to find where they get the stuff. I’d hoped this morning that the girl would be able to name the source of supply, but her story petered out. The usual man in the park, or at a street comer, a package of snow in exchange for notes. The only thing we did get this time was a description of the man – the exchange took place in daylight, which was a slip-up. We might get some results from it.”
It was the same old story; there seemed no end to the folly of sensation-craving youth. He felt a little bitter, for he as well as the police had been fighting against it for many years, but as soon as one loophole was closed up another opened. In his mind, also, was thought of Hilda Brent, Georgina and Diana – three people less alike it would be hard to find; he wished he could find the true common denominator.
Grice went on: “It was quite a vivid description, too. The man was a little fellow, with a hooked nose, bushy eyebrows, and a lisp. Of course, the lisp could have been assumed, but—” Grice paused because of the change of expression on Rollison’s face. “Now what’s the matter?”
Rollison said, softly: “And you think there’s no connection with Charmion? Bill! That’s my man. The man! The writer in invisible ink, the man who called himself Guy. We’re really on the move!”
Chapter Six
Of The Little Man Named Guy
There was little they could do, although Grice left the Club in a troubled frame of mind while Rollison, happy at the thought that the police now had reason to search for Guy, and convinced that Guy would lead to Charmion, was less uneasy, if still concerned lest Charmion should prepare a trap for him which he could not avoid, one to put him on the wrong side of the law. None other was likely.
Rollison telephoned the flat from the Club, but there was no reply; apparently Jolly was still out on his quest. Then he rang Diana, who was delighted to hear him.
“Does this mean we are going to see something of you? Do try to come down, Rolly. George is home for a week.”
“I will try,” Rollison assured her, “but this is just to set your mind at rest—I hope,” he added, cautiously.
“You mean about that man named Guy?” asked Diana. “He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did, rather. I don’t know why, but—well, if you know him, that’s all right.”
“I remember him,” said Rollison, mendaciously. “Di, if he should turn up again, I want you to try to telephone a message to me while he’s there. Don’t make it obvious, but try. Will you?”
Diana was silent for so long that Rollison said sharply: “Are you there?”
“Ye-es,” said Diana, heavily. “So it does mean trouble?”
“No, not trouble, but—”
“You needn’t try to be reassuring,” said Diana. “I suspected it from the first; that’s why I wrote to you. There was something really evil about him. I can’t explain it, but—oh, well, I suppose nothing will ever change you.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Rollison, and jollied her. “It’s not serious.”
“I don’t believe a word you say,” Diana declared, roundly. She sounded very sober. “I’ll ring through if he does come, Rolly, I promise you that. You won’t be coming up, then?”
“Just as soon as I can I’ll see you,” Rollison promised.
He rang off, and was very thoughtful as he went to the smoking-room and sat down, stretching his legs and looking through the window into St. James’s Park. There were comparatively few members in the room, and the only sound was of heavy breathing, the rustle of papers and the occasional murmur of conversation. None of those things disturbed his reverie, centred upon the little man named Guy. “Or calling himself Guy,” he mused aloud.
A man who could create such an impression on so healthy-minded a person as Diana, who could startle and disturb so light-hearted a creature as Georgina, was no ordinary fellow. To Rollison, it seemed that Guy had made one major mistake – that of allowing himself to be seen when he had peddled snow. Yet this affair was developing so swiftly and proving itself so well organised that it was difficult, to believe that it had been a mistake. It was very rare for dope-pushers to allow themselves to be seen distinctly enough for clear identification, yet this man had made a marked impression on the girl whom Grice had charged at Marlborough Street. A voice disturbed his reverie.
“Mr. Rollison, please! Mr. Rollison!”
Rollison looked round, raising a hand. A call-boy came towards him with a slip of paper, saying: “Telephone, sir.”
“Thanks,” Rollison glanced down at the message and frowned, for it was brief and unexpected, and it introduced a new element of urgency into the situation. It took him so much by surprise and impressed him more, because it was from Jolly.
“If at all possible, please return at once.”
Rollison left the Club, finding a taxi outside and telling the man to hurry to Gresham Terrace. Sitting back in the cab he was deep in thought.
Jolly might have sent the message, but someone else could have put the call through and given his name as Jolly; this might be another step in the campaign to harass and confuse him. He paid the driver and turned towards the front door, his lips pursed, his expression suggesting that he was in no way perturbed, yet he contrived to look up at the window of his flat; he thought he saw the curtain move, but could not be sure. He put his right hand deep into his trousers pocket, and wished that he carried a gun.
He whistled as he reached the second-floor landing and inserted a key in the lock. Opening the door, he pushed it away from him and stepped swiftly to one side.
Jolly
’s voice greeted him, quietly.
“Is that you, sir?”
“Oh,” said Rollison, almost disappointed. “Yes.” He widened the door and stepped through, but Jolly was not in the little hall. There was a movement in the study, and Rollison stepped towards its open door.
He stopped on the threshold.
Jolly stood in front of his desk, upon which was an incredible thing – a stuffed effigy of ludicrous appearance, with a mask-like face which might have been that of a parrot rather than a man. Yet the life-like impression was startling. There was the little beaked nose and the bushy eyebrows, an incredibly sly and cunning look in beady, brown eyes – artificial eyes, not buttons made to serve.
The effigy was complete from the waist upwards; the chest, with a coat fastened about it, was puffed out, a green tie and a blue collar added a touch of colour that made it more grotesque.
Jolly said: “I thought I’d better send for you at once, sir.”
“Ye-es,” said Rollison, tipping his hat back. “A present from Charmion, I suppose? Ingenious-looking thing, isn’t it? We’re rated high, Jolly.” He approached the bust. “Not a bad piece of sculture, either. Was this just how you found it?”
“Exactly like this, sir. I’ve discovered that several things are missing, though.”
“Such as?” Rollison asked, sharply.
“The phials of cocaine which you kept as souvenirs of the Charmion case,” said Jolly, “and the files on Charmion. His photograph has gone and all the press-cuttings. You left them on the desk, if you remember, sir.”
“I do,” admitted Rollison. “All gone, and this in their place. Clever, these people.”
“I was startled, sir,” said Jolly. “I’m sorry that I did not wait to speak to you in person, but I was just a little apprehensive – I imagined that I heard a movement in the kitchen, and considered it wise to get word to you immediately before making a search. I”—Jolly looked regretful—“I think I was mistaken. I could find no trace of anyone. In fact, if it were not for this room, there would be no sign of felonious entry whatsoever.”
