by John Creasey
Rollison gathered that Jolly would not be sorry when she had gone; even as he talked to Grice, who had just arrived, he could hear her scolding his man. He thought much more of Blanding, who had left the house instead of going to get Rollison’s drink. He had, it proved, received a telephone message when he had reached the hall, and presumably had heard something which had made him hurry off.
“Where?” asked Rollison.
“He was picked up in Regent’s Park,” said Grice. “I put a call out for him, and his wife, as soon as I realised that he had gone.”
“Prominent member of the Government found wandering in Regent’s Park, was it?” asked Rollison, slowly. “Wandering is right?”
“Yes. He was quite distraught.”
“Has he talked?”
“He’s said very little, and he refused to answer questions.”
“The man’s a victim of this devilry, and he’s badly hit. First his stepdaughter and then himself. What about Lady B.?”
“No trace,” said Grice, briefly.
“The source of his trouble, I suppose? It sounds like a telephoned order to keep quiet or his wife will suffer, so he keeps quiet, but can’t hide his distress, But there’s something else. Why was Moor so anxious to kill Georgina – he did try, didn’t he? What was that little pellet he popped into her mouth?”
“Enough morphine to kill half a dozen people.”
“So her life was saved by my little finger,” said Rollison, regarding the swollen member affectionately. “It was a bad jolt. I’d called Moor a decorative feature of the background and left it at that. Big mistake, and I realise it now – his story of the way he tried to get in touch with Georgina was pretty weak, and he was very persistent in his efforts to ‘help’. Just too much the hopeless, helpless swain, if I’d cared to think about it that way. What does he say?”
Grice shook his head. “He won’t say a word.”
Although it was barely seven o’clock, Grice looked as if he needed a night’s sound sleep. His eyes were glassy and he kept yawning, while he had not shaved that day, and now and again he rasped his stubble; dark stubble growing from his blemishless skin looked out of place – it was like looking at a woman who shaved but kept the fact a secret. He was ensconced in an armchair by Rollison’s side, and at his side in turn there was a glass of grapefruit cordial. By Rollison’s side there was a silver tankard of ale, and he made a clumsy movement with his right hand to get at it.
“To their perdition!” he said, and drank. “Well, where are we? Not very far along?”
“I can’t see much more than you know,” said Grice. “We haven’t tied this side of the affair up with the Charmions, although I’m having them closely watched.”
“Nicely said,” admired Rollison. “Closely watched, when you might have been forgiven for hauling them in. All the haunts of vice are being equally well surveyed, I suppose? The Yard is the centre of an ever-widening circle, and dozens of lines lead from it to the satellites of Charmion.”
Grice said, slowly: “Still Charmion?”
“It has its roots in Charmion,” said Rollison. “Whether he’s still in it, we can’t tell yet. Never was so much patience required by so many in whom a state of patience is a constant purgatory!”
“You sound almost good-humoured,” said Grice, sourly. The Toff grinned. “I wish I could return the compliment! On the whole, we can’t grumble. They would have killed Georgina, because of what she knows, and she can surely know only what Hilda and Anderson discovered. So Georgina is very precious.”
Grice said: “She was reluctant to talk to you, you say? Do you think it was because of the man Moor?”
“It could be,” conceded Rollison, and hoped that the comment did not sound too glib. “How is she?”
“Lefroy doesn’t think she’ll be able to talk rationally for two or three days,” said Grice, sombrely. “They might be vital days. She has someone with her day and night, of course, and the moment she comes round we’ll try to make her tell what she knows. Meanwhile, we’re looking for Race and Lady Blanding. I agree with you that Blanding probably received a threatening telephone call. If we judge from what has happened before in this business, his wife is in danger and he will not make a statement because of it. The same method was applied to the Links.”
“And almost certainly to Hilda Brent, who knew more than she told the Links, but dared not put it all into words,” said Rollison. “If Georgina can give us the key when she comes round, Georgina herself could be in a healthier position.” He knew that she could, the fact that she had acted in his name proved it; but Grice need know nothing of that yet. No one need know, not even Jolly, until he understood her motive.
Grice proved his weariness by snapping: “Don’t be a fool! She is watched night and day, with men outside her door and her window, and a nurse in the room. Nothing can happen to Georgina!”
“Touching faith,” murmured Rollison, “However, the fact that it can doesn’t mean that it will, and I’d rather rely on your men than anyone else, which no one would ever believe I would admit to a policeman! ‘Two or three days’,” he mused, “is a long time. It might even give them time to settle their affairs and disperse. We don’t want them to disperse—”
“Confound it, who are they?” demanded Grice. “How many are there of them? What, are they doing?”
Rollison said: “We’ve agreed that there’s no murder without a motive; there’s no crime without one, either. But the motive needn’t be the usual one. I think—” he narrowed his eyes and went on in a gentle voice: “I may be wrong, Grice, but I think I see it now, from beginning to end. Operative word ‘think’, and I’ll need to get the little cells working harder. So will you. After all,” he went on, widening his eyes and lighting a cigarette with one hand, “you know as much about it as I do. I haven’t kept back a single relative fact.”
Grice said: “I suppose that means you don’t propose to tell me what’s in your mind?”
“Not yet,” agreed the Toff, “because you’re a policeman, and policemen have to bide by their most useful regulations, but regulations can sometimes be side-tracked with advantage. Which is my philosophy of criminal law!” He finished his beer and, with some difficulty, rose to his feet. “Hadn’t you better get home and have a nap? You look worn out.”
“I’ve got to go to the Yard and make my report,” said Grice. He made no attempt to make Rollison change his mind, but there was a touch of bitterness in his voice as he went on: “Do you realise that this case has caused us more trouble than any single one for years? We’re so busy these days that we’ve hardly time to do any one thing properly, and now—” He drew a deep breath. “The A.C. asked pointedly this afternoon whether it was my usual practice to send men running here and there at your behest”—Grice was so serious that he did not smile—“and I had the devil’s own job to persuade him that whenever I’ve done so in the past it’s been worthwhile.”
“Ah!” said the Toff,
“And you say ‘ah!’” complained Grice, bitterly.
“Well, yes,” said the Toff. “I think you’ve put your finger on the spot.”
Grice stared. “Just what do you mean?”
“No,” said Rollison, stepping towards the kitchen, which was no longer filled with the argumentative voices of Jolly and Fifi, “the fruit isn’t ripe enough for picking, yet; I may be quite wrong. Do you remember that I suggested we were riding for the biggest fall ever? Or words to that effect?”
“Yes,” said Grice.
“Link that up with my more recent vapourings,” said the Toff, “and see what happens.”
Grice looked hard at him; although he did not press for more, he seemed less worried when he left the flat, promising to telephone should there be any development in the search for the elusive Dr. Race, and promising, also, to send word to Rollison of anything he was able to learn about the Blandings’ doctor.
When he had gone, Rollison called for Jolly and received his man and Fif
i together.
“Jolly, did you telephone to Hertfordshire?”
“Yes, sir. Lady Forrest has nothing else to tell us.”
“Good! I couldn’t believe that it would spread up there, but it’s as well to know for certain. You’ve told Fifi the whole story?”
“But yes, m’sieu!” said Fifi, warmly, “I ’ave ’eard all of eet. I only wish that Shoe—” she paused, then shrugged her shoulders and added quietly: “You will do all that ees possible, m’sieu, of that I am sure. There ees so much more of importance, also, an’ you, your poor arm.”
“My arm’s all right,” said the Toff hastily. “Fifi, you were fond of Hilda?”
“I was devoted to ’er.”
“And there is Joe—” Rollison paused, seeming to weigh his words very carefully. Then abruptly: “Fifi, I don’t think anyone else can help quite as well as you. It will be dangerous, but if you succeed”—he eyed her intently, seeing the blank expression in her brown eyes and wondering what was passing through her Gallic mind—“it will avenge Hilda, it will free Joe, and it will save Miss Scott and perhaps many others from serious harm.”
“I am at your sairvice, m’sieu,” said Fifi, with such unaffected dignity that Jolly glanced at her with approval. “Please, what ees eet that I do?”
“You go to see Charmion,” said the Toff. “The Charmion you don’t believe in, Fifi. You’re wrong, and it is Charmion, and he is still clever, very clever. You understand that?”
“Yes, m’sieu.”
“He will wonder whether you are telling him the truth, and you will have to convince him that you are,” said Rollison. “If you fail – there will not be much chance, I think, for either you or Joe.”
“Ees eet the truth I tell him, m’sieu?”
“No,” said the Toff.
“Then I will convince ’eem,” said Fifi.
“You’ll leave here, soon, talking to yourself – in French will be best, but you can insert some English words. You will be very angry. All the way to his flat you will talk to yourself”—he spoke with simple directness which she could not fail to understand—“especially as you go up the stairs and wait for the door to open.”
“That ees simple, m’sieu! Often, I talk to myself, when Shoe upsets me!”
“That’s good,” smiled the Toff. “Charmion will be there. You have to tell him that you and I have quarrelled – because I will not look for Joe. You are angry with me; you think that Charmion might, after all, know where Joe is. He will ask you what I am doing, of course, and you will tell him that I believe Joe is one of the rogues.”
“M’sieu!” protested Fifi, “I—but no, I am sorry, thees ees what I tell Charmion!” For a moment her composure broke, but she regained it quickly.
“You will tell him that I believe Joe is working with the rogues,” said. Rollison, “and that I am very pleased with myself because I have killed a man named Guy and also arranged for the arrest of a man named Moor. You will remember the names?”
“Guy—Moor,” repeated Fifi, parrot-like. “Yes, m’sieu.”
“I am pleased with myself,” repeated Rollison, “because I believe that it is all over bar shouting – try to remember the phrase, Fifi – ‘all over bar shouting’.”
“All over bar shahting,” said Fifi, and she might have been Joe Link talking. “Shoe, ’e often says that, m’sieu; eet will be easy to remember.”
“Splendid!” said Rollison. “Now, Charmion will want to know what I am going to do. Tell him that I am going to see his wife and to find out whether she knows Sir Roland Blanding.” He saw Jolly start, but kept his gaze on Fifi. “You have heard me discussing this with Jolly, of course. Say that I believe that Charmion’s wife and Sir Roland Blanding knew each other, and that I can get at the final truth through them. Is that all clear, Fifi?”
“M’sieu, a moment!” exclaimed Fifi. She stared at him, her forehead, wrinkled in concentration, her eyes intent. Then she drew a deep breath and began to speak. She repeated what the Toff had told her, almost word for word, repeating also the names of Guy, Moor, and Blanding. Only twice did the Toff need to prompt her, and when she had finished he nodded approvingly.
“I am pairfect, m’sieu? C’est bon! I weel make ’eem believe it. But—” she frowned again, mercurial, emotional, tears now very close to her eyes. “Shoe, m’sieu—”
“If Charmion believes you, and if I am right in what I think, you will have Joe back,” the Toff assured her, “but it will depend on how well you do it.”
“I will do it pairfect, m’sieu! When do I begin?”
“You’d better have some supper,” said the Toff, “and then get going.”
“I do not need—” began Fifi.
“You might be a long time without a meal,” said the Toff, “and so might I! Supper first, action afterwards. Will you get it, while I have a word with Jolly?”
She hurried off, making the floor shake beneath her weight, and, as if she realised that the Toff did not want her to hear what he said to Jolly, she closed the door firmly. “So you think it is Charmion, sir?” Jolly said.
“I’m very nearly sure,” admitted the Toff. “As for Blanding—” he shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see. We might call it the Great Illusion,” he added softly. “If I’m right—”
“I have a feeling that you will be, sir,” said Jolly.
“‘Yes. You’re a help, you’re always a help.” Rollison smiled at him, and shifted his position, frowning down at his sling. “This arm isn’t going to be.”
“I suppose you’re going to Mrs. Charmion’s apartment?”
“Yes,” said the Toff. “So, I think, will Charmion.”
“Am I to come with you, sir?”
“I think you’d better follow me,” said Rollison, slowly. “Bring a gun, we can never tell what might happen. I think Charmion will believe I’m too near, dangerously near, and that he’ll try to finish it off there. It all depends,” he added, quietly, “on Fifi.” And then, in a sudden burst of exuberance, he began to hum the tune of It All Depends On You; he seemed very confident, yet beneath the confidence Jolly knew there was almost unbearable strain.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Wife Of Charmion
The Toff confounded his wounded arm.
It had been a nuisance while walking down the stairs of the Gresham Terrace flat and while finding a taxi, a greater one climbing into the cab, and still greater because he had not been able to sit back with any comfort. Wilberforce Mansions was a block of flats halfway up Putney Hill, to which he had been directed by a policeman whose large form had loomed up just after he had left the taxi. That was waiting nearby, its driver content with a pound note in his pocket and the promise of another if he waited.
Rollison entered the mansions, and found himself in a brightly illuminated foyer. A uniformed porter sat in a glass-encased office, and came out smartly as Rollison looked about him. The floors were carpeted, there was subdued wall-lighting in the passages, and the air of luxury which had puzzled him when he had first heard of it; somewhere he had failed to associate luxury flats with the picture of the dope-ridden wife of Charmion.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked the commissionaire.
“I want Flat 41,” said Rollison. “What floor is it on?”
“The second, sir. Shall I take you up?” The man looked at the sling, and, without waiting for an answer, walked towards the lift, which was standing open. “Better tonight than last night, sir, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, and as the iron gates clanged to, asked: “Do you know the flats well?”
“Yessir—like me own ’and,” declared the other, an oldish, well-preserved man with a nut-cracker face. “Been ’ere ever since they was put up, sir. I know every tenant, noo an’ old, sir.”
“Is a Sir Roland Blanding one of them?” asked Rollison.
“No, sir, no one o’ that name at all lives ’ere.”
“I must have made a mistake,” said Rollison, and
when the man looked alarmed he added hastily: “Oh, I still want Flat 41, but someone told me that the Blandings live here. You’re sure? A tall, good-looking, rather florid-faced man – red-faced and weather-beaten, that is. A complexion rather like your own,” he added, as the lift came to a standstill.
“Several people might be described like that, sir,” said the commissionaire, discreetly.
“His wife,” said Rollison, “is a tall, remarkably beautiful woman—” He described Lady Blanding well enough for anyone who knew her well to recognise her at once. The man shot him a quick, suspicious glance and said, blank-faced: “I don’t reckemise the lady, sir.”
“Are you sure?” asked Rollison. He had put some one pound notes in his right side pocket, so that he could get at them easily; he took one out. The commissionaire glanced at it, and then at Rollison’s face.
“Quite sure, sir,” he said, expressionlessly.
“Then I must be wrong, mustn’t I?” asked Rollison, amiably. “But take this, for being discreet.” He put the pound note into the man’s hand and turned quickly away from the lift, following an arrow indicating ‘Flats 35-58’. The commissionaire stood staring after him and the Toff whistled gently, believing that the other had recognised the description of one or the other of the Blandings, but that he was a loyal servant to the tenants of the block.
A clock in one of the flats chimed ten.
He had taken nearly three-quarters of an hour to get to Putney, and Fifi, by the time he had left Gresham Terrace, must have been at Charmion’s flat for nearly three-quarters of an hour. If he were right, Charmion would not lose a lot of time coming here. He reached Number 41, paused, and then rang the bell. There was no immediate response, but after a second ring the door opened.
