by John Creasey
“Have you found the taxi-driver?” Rollison demanded. “Have you examined the staircase at the café? Or the bolt on the door?”
“The taxi-driver hasn’t been found yet,” Grice interpolated. “I looked at the bolt and staircase myself, Sir Hugh. The bolt has been scratched, although that is not conclusive. There are traces of feathers and feather dust on the café staircase, although it’s by no means smothered.”
“Would there be feather dust there normally?” asked Rollison. “And what about Joe Link and his wife?”
“They aren’t there,” said Grice.
Rollison stared: “Are you sure?”
“Yes. There’s a notice on the door of the café saying that they will be away until further notice,” Grice told him. It was impossible to guess what the Superintendent was thinking, for his face was expressionless and his eyes quite blank. “You feel sure that Fifi Link telephoned you?”
“I thought it was Fifi. It isn’t difficult to fake a foreign accent, but it is to tell the real thing from an assumed one on the telephone. How long have they been gone?”
“Since morning.”
“But the door was open when I got there!”
“You see,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, “only the Links could corroborate your story about the woman Brent – the story which you told the Superintendent earlier today, I mean. I really don’t see—”
Rollison spoke, acidly.
“All right. Detain me, charge me, let the news get bandied about. If you charge me, you’ll have to put me in dock; if you put me in dock I shall have the right to make a statement and to have a legal representative. It will be quite a sensation. The higher the jump, the greater the fall. But get on with it! I’ve been here so long that it won’t make much difference, all London will have heard of it by now. Make it formal, make it official – and then for ever after wonder why you made such a thundering fool of yourself!”
“I see no point in being abusive,” said the A.C., stiffly.
“Of course you don’t!” Rollison pushed his chair back and stood up, stepping across the room and turning to face the others from the window. “The point is that by chance I know more about this business than Grice or any of his men, and I might get quick results. But don’t worry about results, just keep to the regulations. Regulations! There was a time when I thought the safest thing I could do was to keep everything from the police until a case was cut-and-dried. I’m like Charmion, my mind’s atrophied.” He stepped back to the desk and, leaning one hand on it and pointing the other at the A.C., who was so startled that he drew away, his lips parting, went on, “Do what you like with me, but find Fifi, find Joe Link, save them from the same fate as Hilda Brent. And there are others, perhaps dozens of others. Grice is on the fringe of it, but no more. Get past that fringe.”
The telephone rang abruptly.
Rollison stopped and drew back. Grice looked at him meaningly, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The A.C. shot Rollison an apprehensive glance and lifted the receiver.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Yes … Downstairs. I see; that’s good.” He replaced the receiver and looked at Grice. “The taxi-driver is in the waiting-room, Superintendent. Er—what were you going to say, Rollison?”
Grice hesitated, then stepped towards the door. The A.C. nodded, dismissing him. The door closed behind him and Rollison ran his hand down the back of his head, then dropped into a chair and said, with a faint smile: “I was letting off hot air, I’m afraid. You’re wrong, you know. You shouldn’t detain me. I’m the Aunt Sally, and the coconuts will come my way.”
“Some have certainly struck,” said the A.C. more mildly than might have been expected. “I am in a very difficult position. Of course, your reputation stands you in good stead, but—” He pressed a bell-push, and the door opened to admit a sergeant. “Take Mr. Rollison to Superintendent Grice’s office, please, and stay with him there. I won’t keep you any longer than I must,” he added.
Rollison stood up. He fancied that there was a faint smile on the A.C.’s lips as the door closed, but the next half-hour dragged; the many urgent things pressing on his mind enraged him, and he could imagine no time when he could less afford to be idle.
When Rollison had left the larger room, the Assistant Commissioner waited for some time, frowning and, occasionally, reading a paragraph from Grice’s report. He appeared to be in the throes of a considerable dilemma. When Grice returned, he spoke abruptly.
“Well? What does the taxi-driver say?”
“He bears out the story, sir.”
“I see. You’re well-disposed towards Rollison, aren’t you, Grice?”
“I’ve known him for some years,” said Grice cautiously, “and even without the taxi-driver’s evidence I would be reluctant to think him capable of murder. On the other hand”—he paused, but as the A.C. did not speak, went on—“it is just possible that the taxi-driver has been bribed to make his statement. If it were anyone but Rollison—” he paused again, this time waiting until his chief spoke,
“If it were anyone but Rollison,” said the A.C., “you would not consider taking his word. In spite of his past record, we can hardly give him his freedom unconditionally. We have to admit the possibility that he is being framed, but at the same time the prima facie evidence suggests that he might have visited this woman and then had a brainstorm. However, he is Rollison and we might be justified in taking a chance with him when with anyone else it would be impossible.” He paused. “But we shall have to take extreme precautions. You think that with Rollison at liberty there is a greater chance of getting to the bottom of this business, because in your opinion one of the essential conditions of the criminals’ plot is to have him under charge, isn’t that so?” The A.C. tapped Grice’s report.
“It is, sir,” admitted Grice.
“‘That would justify us giving him rope in the event of a Home Office inquiry later,” said the A.C., “but only if we have a secure hold on the other end of the rope. Have we a good man who can watch him?”
Grice said slowly: “It would need two, and if he discovered that he was being watched, and wanted to act on his own, he would probably shake them off.”
“On the other hand, if he did elude the men, immediately he was found again we would have to bring him in.” The A.C. grew decisive. “Detail the best men for the job, Grice, then tell Rollison that we are releasing him because of the taxi-driver’s evidence. Say nothing more; we can judge by his actions whether there is any justification for the experiment, but we mustn’t stretch the point any farther.”
“I see that, sir,” said Grice, and added with obvious sincerity; “I think it’s the right thing to do, and I appreciate it.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the A.C., and nodded dismissal.
The blinds were down at the windows by which Rollison stood, and the room was stuffy. The sergeant waited impassively by the door. Every time footsteps sounded on the cement floor of the passage outside Rollison grew tense with expectancy, but each time they passed. He knew that if he were detained, whether under charge or not, he would find it hard to keep his temper.
But could he blame them if they held him?
He was obsessed by the fact that precious hours were passing when he needed to give all his attention to the problem of Charmion – or those who were also framing Charmion. He could not think clearly about it, even Charmion’s visit was blurred in outline. He saw two Charmions, the man at the window of the Kettledrum and the man who had talked with such unrestrained passion in the flat. He thought of Guy, of Jolly’s inquiries, of his suspicion that the man at the Kettledrum window had been made up to look like Charmion; and then he said aloud in a startled, almost angry voice: “Not Charmion – Charmion’s brother!”
Then the door opened and Grice came to.
Chapter Ten
Brother To Charmion
“You’re all right,” said Grice.
Rollison stared at and through
him, seeing in his mind’s eye the face at the window and obsessed with the idea that had come to him.
“Good,” he said, absently. “Grice, I—what’s that?”
“I thought you’d wake up to it soon,” Grice said drily. “The taxi-driver remembers you. He waited outside for twenty minutes, and when you didn’t turn up he had a look in the restaurant. All he remembered was feathers at the foot of the stairs. Then a man came out and paid his fare, so he went off.”
“Well, well,” said Rollison, backing to Grice’s desk and leaning against it. “The flaw in the scheme was as obvious as that. He didn’t recognise the man who paid him, did he?” The description he gives isn’t much help,” Grice said. “It was pretty dark there, and a man of medium height, dark, with a round face, doesn’t help us a great deal.”
“No.” Rollison took out his cigarette case and lit up. “So I’m taken on trust? I misjudged the A.C.,” he added, “I thought he’d be the do-or-die type.”
“The taxi-driver saved your bacon,” said Grice, “although I helped just a little.”
“Of course!” Rollison exclaimed. “I’m an oaf. One day I’ll say ‘thanks’. It shook me,” he admitted. “I haven’t felt like I did when I saw Hilda for a long time. It was Hilda Brent?”
“Yes.”
“What else do you know?” Rollison asked.
“I can tell you where you were found and why the police arrived when they did,” said Grice, “but are you as interested as all that? What were you saying when I came in just now?” When Rollison did not answer, he added: ‘You won’t hold out on me now, surely?”
“I will not!” Rollison assured him. “It’s the old, old story – is it a workable theory or is it just a flight of fancy?” He proved that he was more interested in what he had thought of Charmion’s brother than in what Grice could tell him by plunging into the story, etching in the details and the reasons for the possibility that Charmion’s brother, his wife, and Charmion’s wife also, were in this plot and were working against both him and Charmion.
Grice frowned and sat down at his desk, which was scrupulously tidy. The wind blustered and shrieked outside, and not far off there was a noise, as if a sign were banging against its support. The sergeant waited by the door, studying a report which he had picked up when Grice had entered.
“Do you really think much of it?” demanded the Superintendent quietly. “Or is it just a bright idea?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Rollison. “Be wary of ideas, for they so often make you take the wrong turning. All the same, he was uncannily like Charmion was seven years ago. Where can we find out about him? He didn’t appear in the case, as far as I can remember, but there might be something in police records about him. Will you look?”
Grice glanced at the sergeant: “Go along to Records,” he said, “and bring all the files relative to the Charmion case, Forbes.” When the man had gone he added to Rollison: “I’ve been checking on the earlier attack on Hilda Brent and those she said were made on her children. I can’t find any evidence that any was criminal, except the attack on her in the street, and there isn’t much help to be got from that. The thing is—”
Rollison said: “Motive, yes. Why kill her? Not simply to make a case against me. You’d have a job to convince any coroner or jury of that one.”
“Do you believe that’s the motive?” demanded Grice.
Rollison shook his head.
“I do not. But if it weren’t, then they needed to kill Hilda for some other potent reason. They’ve spirited Fifi and Joe away for the same purpose – unless they managed to persuade them to go away somewhere, and I don’t think it’s likely. They were greatly concerned about Hilda and anxious that I should do something for her. Have you a call out for them?”
“Of course.”
“What about Hilda’s children?”
“One’s in hospital, getting over the car accident,” Grice told him. “The other two are being looked after by her husband’s mother. The mother had the children yesterday morning, and neighbours arranged to look in on Hilda every hour or two, to see that she was all right. They had wanted her to stay in hospital, but she had insisted on coming out.”
Rollison said, swiftly: “Why? Did she say?”
“Does that matter?” asked Grice.
“Of course it matters! There was a motive for her murder; there was a motive for her wanting to come out of hospital. They might be related. Will you check up on what she said when she insisted on returning to the house?”
Grice brushed a hand slowly across his forehead.
“What an amazing fellow you are for making the obscure seem obvious! Yes, I’ll see if there was anything worthwhile; you can leave that side of it to me.” Grice made a note on a writing pad, then went on: “Hilda Brent lived in a street behind the Mile End Road, not a hundred yards from the Links’ restaurant. The buildings between the back of the restaurant and the back of the house where Hilda was living are all empty – they were condemned – and Hilda’s is the only habitable one, on her side of the road, for a stretch of fifty yards or more. We can only assume that you were carried that way and no one saw you – or else they were bribed or persuaded to be silent.”
Rollison nodded, only half of his mind on that item of news.
“And the police arrived because—”
“A neighbour reported hearing screams.”
“There weren’t many neighbours about when the police arrived, were there?”
“There were enough,” said Grice. “We’d cleared them away by the time you were brought out. Well, that’s as far as we can go for the time being, Rolly, except – what was it you asked Anderson to do?”
“Find out what he could about the Charmions.”
“Wasn’t something said about a wax face?”
“Oh, that?” exclaimed Rollison. “Haven’t I told you about it? I should have done,” he added, and explained.
Then the sergeant brought in the files on the Charmion case, but there was no mention of the man’s relatives.
It was after nine o’clock when Rollison reached his flat, having telephoned Jolly from the Yard. Jolly was agog when Rollison arrived, but he had nothing of great interest to report, except that his friend Saul Lauriston had examined the face and the artificial eyes, and hoped to have some news by the morning. For the rest—
“Mr. Anderson called, sir, and said that he would look in again about ten o’clock. Mr. Anderson of the Echo, I mean.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Not a word?”
“He simply asked whether you were in, and when I told him that I expected you at any time, he gave me that message. Should he have told me anything, sir?”
“No, said Rollison. “But he might have done. He didn’t say that I sent him?”
“No.” Jolly looked puzzled, and a little later, after Rollison had told him what had happened – Rollison had changed while talking – he looked worried and more doleful than ever. It was Jolly’s habit to look glum, but Rollison believed he was genuinely worried.
Rollison, eating a snack which his man had prepared for him, looked up with one eyebrow raised, and said gently: “Not a nice case, Jolly, is it?”
Jolly said: “I have no wish to appear unduly pessimistic, sir, nor to invite the risk of being dubbed a Jonah, but I have rarely known so unpleasant an affair. There is an atmosphere of unreality about it, a touch of the macabre, a beastliness which—but then, I need hardly tell you, sir.”
“No-o,” mused Rollison. “And yet it has its bright side, I suppose. We haven’t found it yet.” He frowned. “We haven’t found Fifi or Joe Link, either. I’d give a lot to know that they were safe. Deep waters, Jolly.”
“That is of less consequence, sir, than the fact that the sea is uncharted,” said Jolly sombrely.
“Our defences are dispersed, which is what the enemy’s after,” Rollison said. “I don’t know that I like jobs where
we don’t know who we’re fighting. There’s certainly been a powerful effort to make us think we’re fighting Charmion – or else to make us think we’re not,” he added, and shot his man a speculative glance. “What do you make of Charmion’s visit?”
“He could have come to persuade you, falsely, that he is not in the affair, sir.”
“Presenting a refinement of the double-cross?” Rollison looked at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was a quarter to ten. “I’ll give Anderson half an hour, and if he hasn’t arrived by then—”
“What will you do, sir?” asked Jolly, when Rollison paused.
“Go to see Charmion,” said Rollison, “and make sure that he’s in his furnished apartment.”
At a quarter past ten there was no sign of the reporter and Rollison went out, leaving instructions with Jolly to ask Grice to send men to the Shaftesbury Avenue house if he did not return by midnight. He did not think it likely that there would be serious trouble at the furnished apartments which had so disgusted Charmion, but he had transferred his gun from one jacket to the other, and he felt it against his side as he walked as quickly as the black-out would allow to Piccadilly Circus.
Grice’s men followed him, but did not betray themselves.
The squalls of rain had stopped but the wind was high, howling and whining, occasionally sending clouds of mist against Rollison’s face. Traffic crawled, lights were reflected on the greasy roads and wet pavements. At the Circus, he went down the subway and came up at the end of Shaftesbury Avenue – and then, for no apparent reason – he remembered Sergeant Wilson, who had followed the bowler-hatted man but of whom Grice had said nothing.
“Odd,” decided Rollison, sotto voce.
He inquired at a little café, which was open, for Number 217a, and was directed further along the Avenue. The building where Charmion was living was a large one, with wide-fronted shops on the ground floor, office suites on the first and second, and then furnished apartments approached by a narrow wooden staircase. The landings were illuminated by dim blue lights; Flat 5, he found, was on the top floor. As he mounted the last flight of stairs he was reminded vividly of his search of Fifi’s rooms, and he kept his hand on his gun.
