by John Creasey
“’Gina, listen to me. You called me on the telephone and warned me about this, you made sure of my interest, and you did it deliberately. For some reason you didn’t want me to think you had done so, and for the same reason you wanted to make sure that your part in calling me in wasn’t known, but—it’s gone too far for personal loyalties. You’re shielding someone, and you must stop. Two people have died, and others will die unless I know the whole truth – and you can help me to find it, ’Gina, I’m desperately serious.” He paused, and then repeated: “Desperately serious. I tell you, two people have died.”
She licked her lips.
“I—I’d never seen him before,” she repeated, “except—except at the—at the Parrot Club. I thought he—he was one of the turns, they have a cabaret sometimes. That—that’s all.”
“There’s more in it than that. If that were all you would have told me right away. If that were all you wouldn’t have been so secretive about telling me that you were afraid. You are afraid, ’Gina.”
She said, in a hushed voice: “Yes. Yes, I’m terribly afraid!” Her cheeks were ashen and her eyes a burnished blue. “I’m terribly afraid,” she whispered. “But I’ve told you—all—I dare.”
“You must dare more!” said Rollison urgently. “Not for yourself – forget yourself, ’Gina, there are the others, perhaps many others.”
“Please!” she said. “I can’t tell you, I daren’t tell you. I—I won’t tell you, because it might not be true!”
She leaned back on the pillows, with her eyes closed and the dark, beautiful lashes fringing them; beneath her eyes were shadows, dark and tell-tale, but he did not think it was because of the drugs that he had imagined her to be taking, he did not think there was any other reason than fear, a deep-rooted, paralyzing fear which had made her turn to him.
He released her hands and looked about the room. In one corner, near the other side of the bed, was a white telephone. He moved round the bed and picked up the receiver, wondering why he had been allowed to stay in the room so long. He dialled Scotland Yard and asked for Grice, praying that the man would be there; he was, and he sounded gruff.
“Yes, Rolly, what is it?”
“Will you send a police-surgeon or any doctor you can really trust to the Blandings’ place – 27, Portman Square – and then watch for a Dr.—”. He tried to recall the name of the doctor Blanding had called the previous night; it was a short one, rhyming with ‘lace’. “Race,” he said. “Dr. Race, somewhere in the West End. Don’t let him go; have every move he makes watched – you’ll do this, Grice?”
After a brief pause, Grice said: “All right.”
“Good man!” said Rollison, with feeling. “One other thing – Charmion’s wife. Have her protected, have the flats carefully watched. If you can, get her history.” He added, after a moment’s deliberation: “I think we’re nearly there.” Then he replaced the receiver, turned – and found a little man with a face like a parrot, who might have been any one of the troupers he had seen the night before, standing in front of the satinwood wardrobe against the wall opposite. The little man held a small automatic almost negligently; but there was nothing casual in his expression; his beady eyes were malignant and inflamed with rage.
“So you think you’re nearly there, do you?” he said. “Think again, Rollison. Pick up that receiver and cancel your instructions to Grice.”
Chapter Nineteen
More Of The Man Named Guy
“Oh, hallo,” said the Toff, dry-lipped. “Mr. Guy, I presume?”
“Don’t try to be funny,” said the little man. His lips barely moved, the words were audible because of the hush in the room. “Pick up that receiver and cancel your instructions to Grice.”
“In the first place,” said Rollison, without moving, “I don’t instruct the police to do anything, I request. In the second, once—”
“Pick up—” began Guy, only to stop as the Toff cut across his words regretfully, putting everything he could into a pretence at being unconcerned.
“I just can’t do it, Guy. The wheels of the law grind slowly, but they grind. Oh, yes, they grind. Grice will come himself, I think.”
“Unless you pick up the receiver and do as I have told you, you will see Georgina Scott killed in front of your eyes,” said Guy. “I am not joking. You have time to prevent it. You can tell Grice it was a mistake. I don’t care how you do it, but do it. I shall count three, do you understand?” It might have been the wax model speaking, so little did the lips move, so hushed was the voice. “One,” he added. “I’m serious.”
Rollison snapped: “Don’t be a—”
“Two,” said Guy. He raised his gun, training it on Georgina, who appeared to be unconscious and whose breast was moving very gently beneath her wrap.
“Don’t do it!” snapped Rollison. He picked up the telephone and dialled the Yard number – the eyes of the little man were on him. Had he dialled any number but Whitehall 1212 the shot would have been fired. Yet Guy looked at Rollison, his narrowed eyes still holding the malignance which puzzled Rollison. “Scotland Yard?” Rollison asked. “Superintendent Grice, please – an urgent call from Richard Rollison.”
“Don’t try to convey a hidden message,” said Guy.
Rollison said, slowly: “I can guarantee nothing, but … hallo, Grice?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said a respectful voice, “but the Superintendent has just left the office. I’ll try to find out where he is, if you’ll hold on.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “Yes, I’ll hold on.” He looked at the other and said, much more casually than he felt: “Grice isn’t in his office.”
“Countermand his orders to his staff,” said Guy.
“Oddly enough, they don’t accept my orders,” said Rollison. He felt a pulse beating in his neck, and a film of sweat on his forehead. If the man would shift the gun an inch, if Georgina would move her position – he had a wild thought of putting his hands beneath the bed and heaving it over on one side, so that Georgina would be hidden; he would have tried, but there was not sufficient time. He wanted anything to happen to relieve the tension which smothered the temporary exultation he had felt when the man had first spoken; for that order had not been a hoax, it had been grimly serious. It meant that he had asked Grice to do something of which this man was afraid.
Well, Grice would do it. Whatever happened to Georgina and himself, Grice would act.
The doctor, of course – Dr. Race. A man he had never seen, a man of whom he had heard only once. But there were others, many others; Rollison thought that he saw half of it, although there was much which would have to unfold itself.
“Rollison, if—” the man began.
Rollison said: “There’s nothing more that I can do.” He thought it might be worth trying to throw the telephone at the man; it would at least make him jump and spoil his aim. “Nothing you can do will save you. If you do more murder—”
He placed his leg against the side of the bed; it was useless to try to overturn it, but he could shift it to one side. He exerted all the pressure he could, and the bed groaned, then moved a couple of inches. The man named Guy fired. A bullet cut through Georgina’s hair and pillow, and buried itself in the wood or the wall behind; there was little sound, for the automatic had a silencer. He pushed again as Guy swung the gun round towards him.
Georgina, suddenly awake, screamed!
Rollison darted towards the wall.
The bullet from Guy’s gun caught him in the fleshy part of the left forearm; he felt the stinging pain of the wound and the numbness which seized his arm at the moment of the impact. He struck against the wall, without taking his eyes off Guy, and shouted at the top of his voice to attract attention; and Georgina screamed again.
Rollison knew that he could not evade the inevitable second bullet from Guy – but with his right hand he snatched up the telephone and as he moved it in front of him the bullet struck it; the instrument disintegrated in his hand, he felt a sh
arp stinging sensation, but nothing else; the bullet ricocheted into the wall.
In the passage someone called out in alarm, and there were hurried footsteps. Below, in the street, the engine of a car started up and a car moved off. Had Guy fired again he must have wounded Rollison grievously, but the man turned and moved swiftly to the window, not looking away but for a moment unable to train his gun accurately. The man was so desperately anxious to find out what car was moving that he took a chance which enabled Rollison to put his right hand into his pocket and clutch his own automatic. He fired through his pocket in the hope of wounding Guy, but the bullet struck the man in the head; he had not allowed for his small stature.
Guy dropped his gun and stood quite still. On his face was an expression of consternation and surprise; it remained there as his knees bent and he fell down – just as the footsteps reached the door and someone began to hammer on it.
Only then did Rollison realise that the door was locked.
He judged that Guy had entered while he had been absorbed in questioning Georgina. He stepped swiftly across the room, holding his left hand against his side; two drops of blood fell from it and were bright on the creamy carpet. Rollison opened the door with his left hand so that he could keep the doorway covered with his gun; then he stepped aside, for it was Blanding and young Moor.
“Rol—” began Blanding, and then saw the automatic. He drew back a pace as Moor cried: “’Gina!” and rushed past Rollison towards the girl, who had hitched herself up on her pillow and was staring, terror-stricken, towards the huddled body of Guy.
“The police should be here in ten minutes,” said Rollison in a low-pitched voice. “’Gina’s not hurt.”
“She’ll need a doctor,” Blanding said, agitatedly. “Rollison, what on earth have you been doing? Look at—” he stared at Guy, and broke off.
“A doctor, yes,” said Rollison. “Phone your man. This telephone’s no good, find another.” He felt the blood pouring from the wound in his arm, and began to take off his coat. “Hurry, man!” The doctor was not likely to come, of course, although there was just a chance that he would not know what had happened, that he had been betrayed; first by accident and then by Guy’s manner. “Oh, Blanding! Did someone leave in a car just now?”
Blanding called ever his shoulder as he hurried down a passage: “My wife went—”
“Come back!” cried Rollison, his coat half off. “Your wife went where? Tell me, man, where did she go?”
“I think she’s gone out to a bridge party,” said Blanding, without stopping.
Rollison turned back, passed Georgina’s room and went into another, opposite; it was a bathroom, as he had seen through the doorway. He finished taking off his coat and picked up a hand towel. Taking a pair of scissors from the bathroom cabinet he nicked the hem, then ripped the towel so that he had a two-inch strip. He tied it above the ugly wound in his arm, watching the blood well up. He used a propelling pencil as a tourniquet and the bleeding slackened. He made as neat a job as he could of bathing the wound, although it still bled a little, then wrapped the rest of the towel about it.
When he reached the passage again, Blanding was going into Georgina’s room.
Bob Moor was standing looking down at her, wide-eyed and helpless. Georgina was saying: “Go away, go away, go away!”
Rollison reached Moor and took his shoulder; he motioned towards the door. Moor’s frightened, worried eyes were turned towards him reproachfully, but the youngster obeyed. Blanding began to question Georgina, but she shrieked at him to go. She was panting with emotion. “Go away, go away!” she cried, “I can’t stand any more, I can’t stand it!”
“But my dear,” said Blanding, helplessly. “I only want to help you.”
“Go away!” shrieked Georgina.
“You’ve got to help her!” cried Moor, from the door; he had gone no farther than the passage and was in the room again hurrying towards her. “You’ve got to give her something to quieten her, can’t you see she’ll go mad? Oh, ’Gina, ’Gina!” He reached her side, pushing past the Toff and shouldering Blanding out of the way. “Darling, tell me—” he put a hand to her face, as if to try to close her mouth, which was wide open as she screamed. Rollison saw a little white thing, like a pill, against her tongue; it seemed to appear from nowhere. “Darling, don’t scream like that, don’t—” went on Moor, as if distracted.
Rollison took two long strides and reached him; he swung his clenched right fist, catching the youth under the jaw. All the power he could summon was in the blow, which sent Moor flying against the wall, his eyes rolling. Blanding stared stupidly, Georgina began to quieten down, gasping instead of shrieking; her mouth was closed.
“Get her mouth open,” Rollison said, savagely, “Pinch her nose – get her mouth open. Go on!” His voice was so harsh that Blanding obeyed, like a man in a dream, jerking Georgina’s head back as if preparing to administer medicine to a recalcitrant child. Rollison stood over her, inserting his little finger into her mouth; Blanding let go, and Georgina’s teeth bit into the finger, but Rollison kept it there; he felt the tablet. “Get her mouth open!” he repeated, and as it opened he hooked the tablet out; it dropped to the sheet. “All right,” he said, and turned to little Robert Moor, who was picking himself up and who had his right hand at his hip pocket.
“Keep away,” he said. He had stopped pretending; his eyes were cold and dangerous as the Toff approached him. “Keep away!” He snatched out a gun, but the Toff was too close and hooked his legs from under him; he fell, dropping the gun. “We’re making progress,” the Toff said, but his head was reeling and he felt faint. Georgina’s face seemed to be describing ever-widening circles, Blanding was bobbing up and down. He was vaguely aware of surprise at the discovery of the treachery of the innocent-seeming Robert Moor. As he staggered to the bed and sat down, putting his face in his hands, he muttered something – he wanted to make sure that Blanding did not allow Moor to get at his gun. The words would not form themselves properly. A great blackness came over him, and he knew that he was on the point of fainting. He put his head between his knees, grunting with the effort. He grew aware of confused sounds and fresh voices, a hand on his shoulder and a question which became more and more urgent.
“Rollison, are you all right?”
He straightened up; a moving face in front of him was familiar and friendly. It was Grice.
“Moor,” he mouthed. “Man named Moor. Get him.”
“He won’t do any harm,” Grice said.
Someone was bending over Georgina, who was now lying quite still. Blanding loomed large over Rollison and Grice told him, sharply, to get away. Rollison rose to his feet and looked stupidly about him.
“I could manage a drink,” he said; he was surprised at his thirst, at the weakness of his limbs. But he was getting better, for he heard Blanding distinctly when the man said: “Yes, of course,” and saw him hurrying out of the bedroom.
Others were bending over the huddled figure on the floor. “Of course,” said Rollison, “Guy. He didn’t expect it, he was too curious about the car. Sorry I had to destroy the evidence, Grice.” He managed a smile. “I forgot he was so short, I meant to get his shoulder. What about—Race? You’re looking after him?”
“I sent two men to watch him,” said Grice. “Have you any definite news?”
“I think so. Who’ve you brought—oh, Lefroy. Good!” The berry-faced doctor was straightening up from Georgina, and he glanced sideways at Rollison, a humorous quirk at his lips. “I made a guess and said that Georgina took drugs,” said Rollison. “Does she?”
“Is this Georgina?” asked Lefroy.
“Yes.”
“She’s quite prostrate,” said Lefroy, “but as for an opinion—” he shrugged his shoulders and looked at her eyes, pulling the lids up.
“An opinion only,” urged Rollison. “You won’t have to take an oath on it.”
“Then I don’t think so,” said Lefroy, “I’ve examined her pr
etty thoroughly, Grice.” He was addressing the Superintendent and Rollison was reminding himself that many things had happened while he had been semi-conscious, and he had lost all count of time. “No, I don’t think so,” repeated Lefroy.
“Then you want Race,” said Rollison, and grinned inanely. “Race for Race. But is it a charge? Falsely declaring that a patient is addicted to drugs? Georgina could swear a charge of defamation of character. Take a chance on it, will you?”
“We’ll have him in for questioning,” said Grice. He busied himself with one of the waiting men; the flashlights were going and they dazzled Rollison, for the room missed the sun and until then had been shadowy.
“Quite a party,” said Rollison, “What about that drink, Grice?” He raised his voice, and Grice looked over his shoulder.
“Blanding—” he said, and paused.
Rollison said: “Yes. He went to get me a drink. How long has he been gone?” He stepped towards the door, adding sharply: “Too long. Oh, damn!” His knees began to bend and but for one of the policemen he would have fallen. As it was, he was led meekly to an easy chair and seated in it, after Grice had hurried out of the room in search of Blanding.
Near the chair, on a small table, was Georgina’s handbag, lying open. Some visiting-cards were inside, but Rollison would not have touched them had not one been face downwards. On the reverse side were little drawings, of a top-hat, a monocle and a swagger cane.
Suddenly tense, he took it out; it was identical, with the one which young Charmion had shown him.
Georgina had sent the card, had harassed the younger Charmions in his name!
Chapter Twenty
The Evasive Dr. Race
“Blanding?” asked Rollison. “Or no Blanding?”
“Ye-es,” said Grice. “We’ve found him.”
It was later that afternoon – so late that at Rollison’s flat the curtains were drawn and the artificial light was dazzling enough to hurt his eyes; his head ached abominably, but he refused with petulant obstinacy to go to bed, so sat uncomfortably in an easy chair, with his left arm in a sling. He had been there for two hours, after being brought to the flat in a police car, and after Jolly and Fifi had received strict instructions as to what he should be allowed to do and not to do. Fifi appeared to have forgotten her own great trouble in Rollison’s plight; to see him hors de combat seemed to horrify her, as if part of the world which she had thought secure had suddenly toppled about her.
