by John Creasey
He did not stop for the next fifteen minutes, unfolding a story which made Rollison realise much of what he felt. Rollison sympathised with him, although there were moments when he thought Blanding had read more into it than there was. It was a strange story, almost bizarre; but it was told with a vehement earnestness which made it obvious that Blanding felt deeply.
The point which mattered most, to Rollison, was that he hated Charmion’s brother.
Rollison walked from Portman Place to Gresham Terrace.
It was now raining steadily, as if it did not mean to leave off before the streets were running with water and the earth was saturated. It was a cold rain, too, and Rollison buttoned up his macintosh and walked through it, deep in thought and only aware of the elements when, at the comers, he turned into the wind.
Charmion’s brother, he thought; and Anderson, if he had told the truth to the first Charmion, had seen the man’s wife.
He wondered whether Anderson had called at the flat.
He hoped that the man would not be waiting for him, for he needed time to try to get his thoughts in order and to separate the chaff from the plentiful wheat. Slowly but surely, a story was building itself out of the mass of relevant and irrelevant detail; there was the hitherto unexpected existence of the three people in whom Charmion had placed his trust; and there was Blanding’s evidence, now, that the younger Charmion was a rogue.
There was no more, perhaps, than that.
A man of Blanding’s convictions would feel it more strongly than most, perhaps, although any man, whether of faith or not, would feel it strongly enough. It was very simple; the younger Charmion had pretended to be in love with Blanding’s own daughter – who was now in the nursing service. There had been a child, a promise to marry – and then the discovery that the man was already married.
An ordinary story; yet a bizarre touch was in the fact that right until the last moment, and even now, Blanding’s daughter believed in Charmion, and did not think that he had betrayed her. It was there, also, in Blanding’s hatred for him. The tragedy had been made better or worse, according to the point of view, by the death of the child in early infancy.
Blanding had thought it a closed chapter until tonight.
Rollison reached the flat, and Grice’s man went off to telephone his chief.
There was a light beneath the door, which meant that someone of whom Jolly did not wholly approve was waiting in the entrance hall. Rollison opened the door with his key, and Anderson rose from a chair his expression, for so cynical and experienced a man, surprisingly eager. But, it was not so eager as that of Bob Moor, who rose quickly from the same settee. With a sense of shock, Rollison realised that he had forgotten the youngster.
“Rollison—” began Anderson.
“Mr. Rollison!” exclaimed Moor.
“Could it be one at a time?” asked Rollison.
“But—” began Anderson.
“How is she?” cried Moor. “Mr. Rollison, I don’t think—”
“She’s quite all right,” Rollison assured him. “She’s had a shock, but she’ll get over it? She didn’t tell you anything that you haven’t told me, did she?”
Anderson, taking his cue, stood back and lit a cigarette; but he gave an impression of suppressed anxiety and eagerness which titillated Rollison’s curiosity.
“That’s one of the things I wanted to see you about,” said Moor eagerly. “I forgot at the time. Mr. Rollison, she told me about a man who frightened her – apparently she saw him this morning and again this evening. She thought he was following her. She even made me go to the window and look out, in spite of the black-out. She said it was a man with a face like a parrot. There was no one there, of course, but I thought you ought to know.”
Rollison’s expression was bland.
“I’m glad you remembered it,” he said.
“But what can I do?” demanded Moor. “I’ve only three more days left in London, and—oh, I know I can’t expect you to be interested, but I feel the very devil about it. She’s a different girl! Why, the last time I was on leave—”
“She’s not been well,” said Rollison, gently. “It’s only just been realised. Don’t worry about her. If you’d like to, give me a ring in the morning, about ten o’clock. Will you?”
“Why, yes,” said Moor, promptly. “You—you’re sure it’s nothing else?”
“What else should it be?” demanded Rollison.
“’Well, this little fellow, and her hysterics, and—” Moor broke off. “I suppose I’m imagining things. Look here, Rollison—” he dropped the ‘Mr.’ for the first time, showing the intensity of his feelings. “You’re not just stalling me? There isn’t anything the matter? If I thought I could help—” he broke off, miserably.
“You may be able to, later,” said Rollison reassuringly. “When ’Gina’s convalescent, shall we say?” There was a cheerful gleam in his eyes, a man-to-man note in his voice; they worked miracles, for Moor seemed to be much happier on the instant. He said “Thanks” warmly, and then nodded to Anderson a little awkwardly. Rollison saw him to the head of the stairs, and Moor walked down cautiously, for he had no torch and would not borrow one of the Toff ’s.
In the hall, Anderson was standing up, and he spoke quickly as Rollison closed the door.
“Who’s that, Rolly?”
“One of Georgina Scott’s young men.”
“I thought as much.” The light remained in Anderson’s eyes, and Rollison was amazed, for he had imagined that nothing could excite Anderson.
The man’s face was leathery, his nose, cheeks and eyes gave evidence of heavy drinking; at one time he had been good-looking, but age and drink had spoiled that, although he still looked presentable. His careless dress did not improve him, and his moustache was thick but badly trimmed, one side much longer than the other. Had Rollison been asked to sum up Anderson in a few words, he would have said that he was an able, cynical, unimpressionable soak; but the eagerness in his eyes qualified ‘cynical’. “I thought as much,” repeated Anderson. “I thought I recognised her at Charmion’s flat.”
“For what you didn’t do there, thanks,” said Rollison.
Anderson waved a hand. “I thought you’d want to be after the girl. Rollison, this is about the biggest thing I’ve met in years!”
“It’s big, yes,” said Rollison.
“Man, it’s colossal! And I thought—” Anderson shrugged whatever he thought away, “I checked up on those three people, Rolly. They weren’t at the addresses you gave me, but Charmion’s wife lived not far away. It’s absolutely astonishing!”
“What is?’ asked Rollison, trying not to be impatient.
“She’s just a hag!” exclaimed Anderson. “She couldn’t ever have been much more. Charmion’s wife. The flat’s a dream – no shortage of money, that’s certain, but the woman’s sixty if she’s a day.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, absurdly.
“She’s absolutely raddled,” said Anderson. “Dope! I thought I knew what the dammed stuff did, but I’ve never seen anyone eaten up with it like Mrs. Charmion. It turned me, and I’ve seen some things one way and the other.” He waved his hand again as if he wanted to get the memory of Charmion’s wife out of his mind. “The others – the brother and his wife—”
“Did you find them?” demanded Rollison, sharply.
“They’re on the stage,” said Anderson. “They do a song and dance act. They’ve a flat in Queen’s Gate, plenty of money, but—when I arrived they nearly jumped out of their skins. How do you manage it?”
“Manage what?” demanded Rollison, not surprised at that startling question; it was almost as though he were incapable of feeling surprise; new statements, new discoveries just piled on to those disclosed and added to the turgid mass.
“Don’t keep that up,” said Anderson. “They’re so scared that they jump in unison; you’ve managed them all right!”
“I didn’t know of their existence until an hour or two before I
saw you at Mile End,” said Rollison. “I haven’t seen them or worked on them. They’re complete strangers to me.”
Anderson’s blood-shot eyes widened and he said weakly: “Don’t try to fool me, Rolly.”
“I’m not.”
“But—” Anderson looked positively dazed. “What’s scared them, then? I—no, I don’t believe you! I dropped your name into the conversation almost casually, and they turned sea-green.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “Then it must have been telepathy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
“But they are scared of you!”
“Someone else has made them so; well have to find out how it was done. We might find it useful in future,” added the Toff, bleakly, “—if there’s any future. I like this less and less. But what led you to such extravagance?”
“What extravagance?”
“You said it was the biggest thing for years,” Rollison reminded him.
Anderson said: “Look here, Rollison, you must know more about this than you pretend – it’s no use coming over all innocent Charmion’s out of jail. He left his money in the hands of his relatives. His wife, who had the major influence, is so raddled with drugs that she would sign anything put to her. The brother and his wife have conspired with someone – you probably know who! – to get Charmion’s money. Well, they’ve succeeded. It’s gone to build up—”
“Oh, damn!” exclaimed Rollison, for across Anderson’s words the telephone rang and, almost at the same moment, the front-door bell made him start; it was a battery one, with the bell fitted to the back of the door.
Anderson, interrupted at the moment of exciting disclosures, looked from one bell to the other, and Jolly came hurrying into the hall.
“Shall I answer the door, sir?” asked Jolly.
“No, the phone,” said Rollison. He stepped to the door himself and opened it, keeping a little to one side and wondering whether he were too jittery. He did not see who was there; he did not see a thing until two stabs of yellow flame appeared and two sharp, sneezing sounds followed – and, close upon them, there came a gasp from Anderson.
Chapter Fourteen
The Second Attempt
Rollison stood quite still.
For a split second he did not know whether to go after the man who had fired the shots or whether to hurry to Anderson; but he was not undecided for long. He took his own gun from his pocket and pulled the door wider open, firing once; but in the light from the open door he could see only the top of a trilby hat, disappearing down the stairs. He jumped forward, and his foot kicked against a string which was stretched across the landing from wall to wall. He sprawled, saving himself from falling by grabbing at the banisters; as he went, he heard groaning in the flat, and the clattering of footsteps below. The echoes of his own shot rang about the landing, the only loud noise that there had been.
Downstairs, a door opened, another banged. He thought he heard people running.
“Rol—Rollison,” called Anderson. There was a taut, strange note in his voice. “Rollison—a man named—Guy. Guy!” Rollison could hear his hoarse, laboured breathing, while someone called gruffly up the stairs: “What’s the matter up there?”
“It’s all right,” called Rollison. He stepped through into the hall and heard Jolly speaking into the telephone.
“Yes, this very moment – Mr. Anderson, of the Echo … Very good, Mr. Grice.” Jolly replaced the receiver and said: “That was Superintendent Grice, sir; he’s coming right away. He had no time to tell me what he rang up about.”
“Rol—Rollison,” gasped Anderson, from the floor. He had not been there for more than thirty seconds; it had all happened with a speed so bewildering that it did not seem real. Now Jolly hurried into the bathroom, needing no telling what to get, and Rollison was on one knee beside the reporter, whose face was distorted and whose breathing was so harsh that it was like a file grating upon metal.
“I—just saw him,” Anderson gasped. “Guy—little man—that mask—”
“Don’t talk,” said Rollison, resting the man against his arm and exploring his breast with his right hand; he felt the warm blood from the wounds; they were on the left side, and although the bullets had missed the heart they had pierced the lung. “Don’t talk,” repeated Rollison. “You’ll be—”
“Guy,” gasped Anderson. “Guy. Rollison! You remember—Charmion’s—League. Charmion’s League—”
“Yes, but don’t—”
“Child’s play,” said Anderson and choked. His body heaved. “My God, how it hurts! Child’s play—Rollison. Nothing on—”
He put out his right hand and gripped Rollison’s shoulder; Rollison could feel the pressure of his fingers getting more and more tense; Anderson was holding on, trying to save himself from dying, although he must have known, as Rollison did, that there was little hope.
He kept his eyes open and his teeth clenched. Rollison said: “Take it easy, Mike,” and then Jolly came hurrying into the hall, carrying a bowl of water and a towel. But before he had put them on the floor, Anderson’s eyes widened and there was a choking noise in the back of his throat.
He muttered something; it might have been ‘Guy’. And then he died.
Rollison straightened up from the reporter’s body and looked at Jolly; but he did not really see his man. He lived through the whole incident, from the moment when the two bells had rung, and thought of the bitterly ironic fact that Grice had called at the same time as a murderer.
Had Anderson really seen the man; and had it been Guy?
He had been standing in front of the door as it had opened, refusing to move; and so he had had a better chance than either Rollison or Jolly to see who had stood there with the gun. There were no grounds for thinking that the reporter had been mistaken, except the fact that the light had been poor.
Everything in the affair was perfectly done, except—
“The little things,” said Rollison, sotto voce. “The little unexpected things, but then—” he shrugged “—can they be perfect?” He was wondering whether the flaws were accidental or deliberate. For anyone to have paid off his cabby at the restaurant had been foolish; the man should have been allowed to wait and then go off, disgruntled, to report to the police that he had been bilked. Yet after the tortuous plan to enmesh him in a charge of murder and assault, they had paid the cabby off and so given Rollison the opportunity to prove his story.
Jolly interrupted his reverie, saying: “Should I telephone a doctor, sir?”
“No,” said Rollison. “Grice will arrange all that, I think – you told him just what had happened?” Jolly nodded. “Then that’s all right. What ought we to look for in the way of clues?” There was no humour in his smile, for although he had seen death by violence a hundred times, the suddenness of Anderson’s death affected him as much as the fact that the man had died on the point of a great disclosure.
There again they had failed – ‘they’ meaning the murderers. Not one man only, that was certain; it was an organisation, a syndicate, its members frightened in some ways and acting like this because of their fear, That seemed the reasonable explanation, and yet it did not explain the confidence with which they acted.
Anderson had robbed them of full success. His last, hardly coherent words had told of something to make the first Charmion’s League of Physical Beauty negligible and laughable – ‘child’s play’, Anderson had said. His excitement, the astonishing eagerness he had betrayed, surely proved that he had made a discovery of enormous importance.
“It hardly matters,” said Rollison, aloud. “What’s that, Jolly?”
“Have you examined what tripped you up?” asked Jolly.
“No, not yet. The neighbours are very good tonight, aren’t they?” Rollison had expected callers after the shooting, but his shout to the single inquirer seemed to have satisfied the other tenants. “Switch on the landing light.”
The landing light was subdued, shining
about a plain, square space, with rubber on the floor and newly distempered walls. The staircase and wainscoting were of wood; Rollison examined the latter near the stairs, soon seeing the piece of cord, the second over which he had tripped. It was fastened at one side by a small nail, but had pulled free at the other. It was not likely that they had been careless enough to leave their finger-prints on the woodwork, and in any case Grice could check.
Then Rollison saw the gun, in one comer; it made a strange shadow on the floor immediately beyond it – like a man’s crooked finger and closed palm. It was a small automatic, very like his own.
“Of course it is,” said Rollison as he bent down to pick it up. “They all look alike.” But he did not touch it until he had taken a handkerchief from his pocket, and then, after making sure that there was nothing else of interest on the landing, and after putting the piece of cord on one side, so that Grice could not trip up, he returned to the flat.
Jolly had not moved Anderson, although he had brought a sheet and spread it over the reporter’s body.
“One gun.” Rollison’s voice sounded strained. “Familiar, Jolly?” He was examining the butt, and Jolly looked at him without speaking. “Familiar!” repeated Rollison, his voice sharp. “It’s mine!”
Jolly said nothing, but just stared.
“Mine!” repeated Rollison. “My initials, my notches – the gun I had with me this afternoon, and I thought—” He took the other automatic from his pocket and examined it; it was exactly the same, except that the initials ‘R.R.’ had not been engraved, and there were no other marks. He drew a deep breath as he put them both on the table. “So they stole it, and planned to leave it here for the police to find. My gun – my bullets. Who killed Anderson?”
“It is certainly clever, sir.” Jolly’s voice was like a gargantuan sigh. “Will you—” he paused.
“Tell Grice?” Rollison barked. “Yes, of course I shall, or they’ll send him a postcard to tell him to examine the gun more closely, and to examine mine. The swine, they—” he broke off. “Jolly, I’m not so good as I was. This case is getting on my nerves.”
