by John Creasey
“Yes, sir?” said the manager.
“Tell them that they shouldn’t have killed Hilda and Anderson,” said Rollison.
“I assure you, sir, that I do not—”
“Understand?” said the Toff, softly. “Perhaps you don’t, but they will. Tell them I’ve a few new lines which should put some pep into the show before the end of the last act. Tell them”—he rested a hand on the other’s shoulder and pressed hard—“tell them that they will be free for about another forty-eight hours – if they’re lucky. Is that clear? Forty-eight hours. I think that’s all.” He stood up, and, doing so, upset the glass of ‘lemonade’; it spread quickly about the white cloth, and began to drip on to the floor. “They’ll topple over just like that,” said Rollison, “because I know, my friend. Anderson told me; he did not die as quickly as they wished. Have you got it straight?”
“I think you must be drunk,” said the manager. “Perhaps you would like to see the members of the Club Committee and lodge your complaint with them in person?”
“Complaint?” echoed the Toff. “What complaint? This is a declaration of faith! Good night!”
He strode off, leaving the man standing and staring after him. He reached the door and hurried down, ignoring the door-keeper. The buxom, pleasant woman in charge of the cloakroom fetched his coat and hat and wished him a pleasant good night; he left her half a crown and went out into the damp night air, not quite sure whether he had made a fool of himself or not.
He passed two shadowy figures not far from the front door, and, suddenly, turned on his heel and approached one. “Are you from Scotland Yard?” he asked. “I’m Rollison.”
“Oh—yes, yes, sir, that’s right.” The man, whose face was just a pale blur in the darkness, drew nearer and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Anything doing in there tonight?”
“Plenty,” said Rollison, “but not quite enough to take action, although that’ll come. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The voice echoed after him – and the word. ‘Good night’, from Lady Blanding and Blanding himself, the manager, the waiter, the door-keeper, the woman at the cloakroom. ‘Good night, good night!’ It followed him like a will-o’-the-wisp, a fugitive thing which might be simply formal but might be filled with meaning. ‘Good night!’
He stopped when he reached Gresham Terrace and took himself to task.
“It just won’t do,” he said aloud. “They’re doing what they want to, they’ve got me on the raw and guessing.”
He went to his flat, knowing that he had admitted the truth; his one vague hope was that his exuberant bluff with the manager might make his adversaries start guessing too.
Chapter Eighteen
“Good Morning”
“Good morning, sir,” said Jolly.
The Toff opened his eyes and peered about his room; Jolly was pulling the curtains apart, and a tray was by the side of the bed, with the papers and the post. The Toff hitched himself up on his pillows and looked at his man. Then he remembered the fantastic interlude at the club at Littleton Place, and that when he had reached the flat he had gone straight to bed, saying little even to Jolly. He had waited just long enough to inquire about Fifi, and to be told that she was in the spare room, fast asleep.
“Good morning,” he said. “Pour out for me, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.” The manservant stood for a moment in a shaft of sunlight, which made Rollison frown; the sun was not usually up when he was called. “It is nearly half-past eight, sir,” said Jolly, “I thought I had better let you sleep a little longer, since you were in so late last night.”
“Yes,” smiled Rollison. “Thanks. Ten little Indians – no, little parrot-men, Jolly. Ten! And men with umbrellas – five or six; there might have been more, I didn’t see them all. Jolly, we’re stymied.”
“I can’t believe that you will not be able to get out of it.”
“I can,” said Rollison. “I can see complete failure. Because the truth of this is beyond me, Jolly!” He sipped his tea and gave his man a detailed description of what had happened at the club, including everything he remembered saying, and then: “When I was in the cold night air, Jolly, I knew that I had been talking for the sake of it, just empty vapouring; I doubt whether that smooth-faced little customer did more than grin behind my hack. He and his committee!”
“There is a committee at the club, sir,” said Jolly, mildly. “Incidentally, it is called—”
“Go on,” said Rollison, his expression growing strained.
“The Parrot Club, sir.”
“Oh, my sainted aunt!” exclaimed the Toff. “It can’t be! All right, all right, if you say so – how did you learn all this?”
“My friend Mr. Lauriston telephoned a short while ago,” said Jolly. “The mask was one of a dozen made by Romain Frères of Paris – they have their studios in this country now, sir – and the eyes were made by a small firm in the Midlands – a one-man business, I understand. Eyes were made for each mask, sir.”
“Oh,” said Rollison.
“The masks were supplied to the Parrot Club by Romain Frères some six months ago, sir,” Jolly told him, “and I asked whether anything was known of the club. It is primarily a dancing club.”
“Ah,” murmured Rollison, and poured out another cup of tea.
“The committee, which buys from Lauriston and Romain Frères from time to time – they supply dresses, theatrical make-up, wigs, and the usual accessories, sir – is a most respectable one,” said Jolly.
“Guinea-pigs,” murmured Rollison.
“Probably, sir, but quite respectable. I expect Mr. Grice knows all about it.”
“Yes. So we sink lower and lower into gloom, Jolly.”
“There must be something behind it, sir.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Rollison, “although if it weren’t for the murders I’d begin to wonder whether it weren’t a gigantic hoax to make me feel a fool – which is putting it mildly. There aren’t murders without motives. How’s Fifi?”
“She requested permission to prepare breakfast, sir,” said Jolly.
“How does she seem? Still depressed?”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. She seems quite confident that the mystery will be solved. By assuring her that Link will be all right you have removed her greatest fear, of course.” Jolly looked sombre. “Had you any grounds for thus reassuring her, sir?”
Rollison frowned. “No, no grounds. Only convictions. Only convictions.” He shrugged. “One can but try.”
It was not a successful morning.
Grice telephoned, instead of calling in person; the inquest on Hilda would be the following day, and that on Anderson would be a little later on the same day. Grice did not rub it in, but Rollison knew that the story of the finding of Hilda’s body would have come out at the inquest, and the Press would be there in strength, since there was a connection with Anderson’s murder. Certainly they would be at Anderson’s inquest in battalions. For once he had omitted to look at the papers in bed, and, at breakfast – just after Grice had telephoned – he looked through them. All, including the sober Gazette, linked his name with that of Hilda Brent’s death as well as Anderson’s. There was nothing unpleasant, no hint that the Press knew the full story, but the Gazette’s tell-tale words: ‘It is understood that Scotland Yard have questioned the Hon. Richard Rollison in connection with both murders’, would certainly be round London in a matter of hours. He knew that if he showed his face in the West End he would be importuned from all sides.
Fifi grew more anxious.
Young Bob Moor telephoned, soon after ten o’clock, to ask whether Rollison needed him for anything, and Rollison sidetracked the youngster. Grice came at last, listened to the full story, and was mildly disapproving, in truth, he was also disappointed. The reports of the men whom he had placed to watch the homes of the greater and lesser Charmions offered nothing, like those of the men who had watched the flat
s at Golders Green and the Parrot Club – whose committee was a stumbling-block of the first order, for it included the most reputable citizens. Grice agreed that behind those names the real directors of the club moved.
“What can I do about it?” Grice demanded. “I’ve raided it twice. No drugs, no broken rules—”
“They served me with a whisky and soda last night,” Rollison said coldly. “Can’t you get them to do the same to a plain-clothes man? I mean, even that would be a charge of some kind.”
“Don’t fool,” chided Grice.
“I’m left with nothing else to do,” said Rollison. “Whom haven’t I seen? Mrs. Charmion – the dope-raddled wife.”
“I’ve seen her,” said Grice.
“No good?”
“Nearly certifiable, and almost bedridden,” said Grice. “Certainly no good. I’m told that she gets very violent.”
“But Anderson found something; he had no more to go on than we have,” Rollison pointed out. “Hilda Brent knew something—”
“Yes, I know,” said Grice, “but I’m no farther on than you are. What I am going to do is to question every one of the waiters and the parrot-dancers at the club, but I don’t think I shall get anything from them.”
Grice went off to report to the Assistant Commissioner and to interview the dancers and waiters; he telephoned in the middle of the afternoon to say that he had obtained nothing of consequence from any of them, and that it was impossible for him to make any kind of charge. The girl who had been at Marlborough Street had identified four of the little men in succession, so her evidence was useless.
Fifi was rapidly becoming tearful; she could not understand why ‘M’sieu Roll’son’ stayed at the flat and did not go out to find her Joe. Nor could she understand the change in Charmion – she did not believe, she said, that it was Charmion.
“But he is,” insisted Rollison. “He went to prison and came out. You don’t change your identity in prison,” he added, and Fifi went into voluble protestations that she was quite sure that no man could change so much. Finally: “I do not believe eet! ’E ees not Charmion! The othair—pairhaps, but not the one you talk to, m’sieu! Where are your eyes?” She screwed up her own and pointed a stubby forefinger at one. “Where are they, m’sieu? Hein! There was a time when all of you was eyes, now—why do you not look, m’sieu?”
Rollison, feeling that he deserved this, did not resent it.
He found himself thinking about the Blandings. He had been inclined to take the man’s story of his presence at the Parrot Club at its face value, but now he began to question it, although he admitted that it was because there was nothing else left to question. Then he thought, more soberly, of Georgina. By testing everything that had happened, turning it over in his mind a dozen times, he hoped to see a new facet. Of all the things that had happened, the queerest was the way Georgina had acted after she had seen that card and ‘Charmion’ in green ink. Since she was taking drugs, even a slight shock would affect her badly, because of her taut nerves; but Blanding had accounted for it because of Teddy Marchant’s accident.
“It could be a little of both,” said Rollison. He stretched out for the telephone and dialled Blanding’s number. A maid answered him, and said: “Sir Roland is not here, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Is Lady Blanding there?”
“I’ll find out, sir. Who is that, please?”
“Richard Rollison,” said Rollison, and waited, not expecting Lady Blanding to speak to him and yet remembering the pressure of her hand when she had left him at the Parrot Club. Then her voice, languorous like her manner and her eyes, sounded over the telephone.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rollison.”
“Oh, good afternoon!” Rollison stirred himself, “I’m worried about Georgina, Lady Blanding. How is she?”
“She is still a little subdued,” said Georgina’s mother, puzzling him by her choice of word, “but I feel sure that she will recover quite soon, and our gratitude to you will know no bounds.”
‘Know no bounds,’ Rollison thought, and wondered testily whether the whole family talked in clichés: his impression of Blanding was of a man of ability but little imagination, a worthy fellow with few human vices and as little human understanding. Yet the man had behaved well, presumably, over Georgina; equally well over his own daughter. Aloud, he said: “I’m really glad to hear it.”
“I suppose the truth is that you hoped to come to see her,” said Mrs. Blanding.
“I had thought of it,” said Rollison.
“Do come,” said Lady Blanding, “she will be glad to see you, I feel sure. And she has told me about the strange little man who gave her the postcard, Colonel Rollison. So bewildering, isn’t it? I was telling her, you see, of the strange little men at the club, and how I disliked them, and she—” She went on talking; Rollison did not hear a word. Like a sudden, blinding flash, a question hurled itself against his mind and dazzled him. He did not answer, even when Lady Blanding said, for the second time: “Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, hastily. “Yes, of course. Er—may I come right away?”
There was a pause, then a faint laugh.
“I don’t think you are giving me your undivided attention,” said Lady Blanding in gentle reproof. “That was what I had just said – that it would be better if you came at once. I shall look forward to seeing you.”
Lady Blanding rang off, and Rollison looked a little stupidly at the receiver, then replaced it and stared at Jolly, who had tapped and entered. But Jolly did not speak; he noted the intensity of Rollison’s gaze, and he stood quietly by the door after closing it softly. Rollison stared at the wall opposite, but showed that he was aware of his man’s entrance, for he began to speak in a low-pitched voice: “Something’s slipped into place, Jolly. Georgina Scott was a member of the Parrot Club, yet her mother described the little men to her and apparently their description surprised her. The club bought the masks some time ago, so they’re not new turns. Why doesn’t Georgina, as a member of the club, recognise the little man at once?”
“The man who slipped her the postcard?” asked Jolly. “I don’t know, sir. It would seem reasonable that—”
“She’d recognise him at once, of course! And she did!” Rollison pushed his chair back and it banged against the wall. “Of course, she recognised him; that’s what upset her, why she’s cracked up. Not just because she recognised him as one of the little troupers, but because the man associated himself with Charmion.” He looked excited. “Do you follow me?”
“I do, sir.”
“And Georgina was the first to warn me what was happening,” said Rollison. “She told me that it was because Teddy Marchant insisted; she made me think that she was gossiping for the sake of it. I even called her woolly-minded! Jolly, she deliberately lured me into the case, do you get that? She did her damnedest to get me interested. Operative question – why?”
“You think she is involved, sir?” asked Jolly, faintly sceptical.
“She knew something – she must still know. She was frightened, she knew of me, she decided that a casual word would secure my interest – damn it, she even broke off at the crucial moment to make sure that I would be intrigued. Jolly, I hope to God I’m not too late.”
“For—for Miss Georgina’s safety, sir?” asked Jolly.
“Yes, and more,” said Rollison. “Telephone Lady Diana Forrest at Hertford, and find out whether she has received any more strange visitors lately, will you?” He went out, passing Fifi with a wave of the hand and a preoccupied smile which made the Frenchwoman run to Jolly to demand what had happened.
Rollison went into the street, scowled because no cab was in sight, and decided chat he would get to Portman Place more quickly by walking than searching for a taxi. He reached the Blandings’ house in a little over ten minutes, slackening his pace only when he was within sight of it; he did not want to create the impression that he had been hurrying.
A bicycle stood against
the kerb opposite.
Rollison noticed it vaguely. He rang the bell and knocked at the same time, being rewarded by a quick response; a maid, very much more alert and presentable than the girl who had been on duty the previous night, opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison, depositing his hat and gloves on the hall-stand. “Mr. Richard Rollison – Miss Georgina is expecting me. Is she in her room?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Rollison left her standing and climbed the stairs. He reached Georgina’s room, tapped briefly, and opened the door at once.
“Who’s there?” cried Georgina.
Rollison forced a smile as he put his head round the door. Georgina was sitting up in bed and staring at him. She had on some flimsy wrap, and her hair was fluffy, her cheeks and lips were not made up, but she had a natural charm which he thought an improvement on the sophisticated Georgina of his acquaintance. Her lips parted, and then she said: “Do you always behave like this?”
“Oh, no,” said Rollison, grandly, “only now and again, when I’m dealing with my favourite clients. How are you, ’Gina? If you’re as good as you look you’re an angelic example to us all.” He advanced and held out his hand; hers was cool and her grip firm.
“I’m sorry I was such an absolute heel, last night,” she said. “I just couldn’t help it, it was one thing after the other.”
“It’s all right,” said the Toff. “’Gina, I want you to answer one question. That little man who pushed the card in your coat – you knew that he came from the Parrot Club, didn’t you?”
Georgina stared at him; what little colour there had been in her lips faded. The brilliance of her eyes, almost a feverish brilliance, took on an expression which he had seen before – it was closely akin to terror.
“No, I didn’t!” she denied. “I don’t know why you should think I did; I’d never seen him before!” That she was lying was so transparent that for a moment Rollison was nonplussed. He stepped nearer, gripping her hands more tightly.
