by John Creasey
“Who’s that?” The voice rose upwards, like a being in torment; a narrow face beneath an untidy mop of hair showed by the door, which was opened only a few inches. “Who’s that?”
“I want to see Mrs. Charmion,” said the Toff, inserting his foot in the door.
“She ain’t—” began the woman with the mop of hair, only to step back as the Toff went forward. She glared at him, her little, cunning eyes wide open. The Toff closed the door and looked at her, without speaking. Her hands fluttered and her pinched features went pale. Rollison judged from her swollen eyes and the pallor about her lips that she was no stranger to drugs; she had the white, pinched look at the nostrils which betrayed the habitual sniffer of cocaine. He judged her to be in the early fifties, although she looked older. She was dressed in an ill-fitting tweed suit, with patched carpet slippers on her feet; her hands were thin, a network of ugly veins.
“What do you mean by forcing your way in?” Her quavering voice was complaining, but she did it automatically; she was surprised at nothing, probably she had expected him.
The Toff said: “Where’s Mrs. Charmion?”
“She’s asleep,” the woman said, “fast asleep; it would be cruel to wake her up, that it would.”
“Yes,” said the Toff. “Life can be cruel. It doesn’t seem to have treated you too well. How long have you served Mrs. Charmion?”
“More’n seven years,” she whined, “more’n seven years, I been a faithful servant, I have. More’n seven long years!” She glanced towards a closed door on the right of the small entrance hall; the Toff understood why she had not made more voluble protests – she had received instructions to let him in and to talk like this. He put his right hand to his pocket, where he carried his automatic as well as the pound notes, and said: “I want to ask you one or two questions.”
The woman sent another scared look towards the door, licking her colourless lips but saying nothing. Rollison wondered whether, even now, he had made a mistake. He did not question his assumptions, but thought that Charmion might decide to kill him there and then and take what consequences there might be.
Then the door opened.
He pretended to be surprised, but although his heart beat fast it was mostly with satisfaction; for it was Charmion, and obviously the man intended to talk.
It was the Charmion who had been at Gresham Terrace and talked so plausibly, but he had all the confidence which he had shown when talking to his brother and sister-in-law. His face looked less drawn, perhaps because of the twisted smile at his lips. His eyes were no longer lack-lustre; it was much easier for the Toff to recognise the man as he used to be.
“So you’ve got here, Rollison?”
“Why, hallo,” said the Toff. “I didn’t think I’d find you here. I thought your wife wasn’t on your visiting list.”
“You aren’t always right,” said Charmion. “What do you want here?”
Rollison put his head on one side, took off his hat and threw it on a small table, and then stepped towards Charmion, with his right hand in his pocket. Charmion moved back into the other room. It was a lounge, well-furnished in modern fashion by someone who had good taste and ample means; there was an atmosphere of snug luxury.
No one else was in there.
“Well, your real wife looked after herself even if she forgot you!” said Rollison, heartily. “Or”—he sat on the arm of an easy chair and smiled into the man’s eyes—“didn’t she? Your story was very plausible, but have you heard the old story of the leopard and its spots?” He leaned forward and took a cigarette from a box on a small occasional table, and struck a match. Charmion stared, his body tense. “You know,” said Rollison, easily, “you’ve prepared some unpleasant surprises for me, of course, but I’ve one or two up my sleeve for you. Fifi convinced you, didn’t she? She didn’t need a lot of coaching, either.”
Charmion seemed to shrink within himself; his eyes were angry and his lips curled; an oath hovered on them, but faded into the corners of the room as Rollison said: “The first trick, I think. Fifi simply worked to get you here, and it was very nicely done.”
Charmion said, softly: “You may think that you are clever, Rollison, but—”
“I’m not clever!” disclaimed the Toff, hastily. “I’ve been nearer to being a fool than ever in my life, but you made your own mistakes, too. You carried the hoaxing just too far, laying on the suspense too thick. You shouldn’t have instructed your brother to leer at me as he left your flat; I was quite sure, when I thought over that, that you’d arranged the quarrel for my benefit, that it had all been planned beforehand, in the hope of keeping me guessing.” He shook his head, sadly. “And you shouldn’t have put flavouring in that whisky at the Parrot Club. You thought they were the artistic touches, but actually they were the flaws.”
“You are talking a lot of drivel!” snapped Charmion.
“Oh, no,” said the Toff. “Hard facts. It’s a pity you didn’t spend your undoubted ingenuity on something more worthwhile. As it is—” he shrugged—“I told Fifi enough to make you think that I was dangerously close to the truth. How’s this for mind-reading; ‘He’s too near for comfort; I’ll see him at Putney and try to convince him that he’s wrong about Blanding, but if he doesn’t seem convinced I’ll kill him on his way home’? Not far out?” asked the Toff, and drew his hand, quite casually, from his pocket; the wall lighting shone on the grey steel of his automatic, and Charmion glanced once towards it. “Not bad?” repeated the Toff, laconically. “I thought you’d agree. This is the final act, Charmion.”
“You are quite mad!” snapped Charmion.
“It’s too late to try to convince me of any different setup,” said the Toff, gently. “You see, it’s all fitted in very well. This woman here, this raddled harridan – your wife? Would you marry a woman twenty years your senior when you could have married any one of the hundred most beautiful women in England? The first major flaw, you see – this woman you said was your wife was nothing of the kind. You selected someone to act the part, someone whose mind was blurred with drugs and who was not likely to betray you. You might even have married her bigamously before you left for Dartmoor, but that’s neither here nor there. All the same – you were married, Charmion. I’ve checked up all the necessary details. You married a charming and beautiful woman, a widow – named Scott. Didn’t you, Charmion?”
He had never held serious doubts, from the moment ‘Lady Blanding’ had left the Portman Place house in the taxi and Guy had been so anxious to make sure that she got away, although he had checked nothing. The blazing hatred in Charmion’s eyes gave him all the confirmation he could desire. There was no ‘Lady Blanding’; she was Charmion’s real wife.
Charmion did not move.
Perhaps it was the gun in Rollison’s hand which kept him rigid, his eyes burning with the hatred which had been conceived, seven years before, in the dock at the Old Bailey. He still retained the trick of immobility which made it seem that he was about to spring, that he would do great harm when he did so.
Rollison said: “Your wife ‘married’ Blanding. Some people take bigamy as it comes, it’s treated too leniently in many courts. Anyone completely amoral – anyone who could marry you, that is, knowing what you were – would think little of it. You were in Dartmoor, your wife was footloose, Blanding fell in love with her – and he was a wealthy man. I haven’t the slightest doubt that you were a party to it, either before or after the event. I’ve no doubt that she’s wrung a fortune out of Blanding.”
When Charmion said nothing, Rollison went on: “Georgina discovered it, of course. It was more than she could believe; she just could not credit that her mother was capable of such a thing, and yet she was afraid. So she wanted the truth to come out, although she would not take any active part in helping it – except to warn me. Georgina deserved a better mother, Charmion.”
Still Charmion did not move.
The revelation of Rollison’s theory must have made him seethe; his im
mobility made Rollison feel sure that someone else was in the flat. There was danger in the very air; Charmion would try to make sure that he carried this story only to the grave. The tension mounted, making it difficult for him to concentrate on Charmion’s face, but he contrived to, and went on, in a gentle, mocking voice: “Your wife really made me understand, when she invited me to go to see Georgina. You see, I had told the manager of the Parrot Club that it would all be over in forty-eight hours. He told ‘Lady Blanding’, of course, since she was on the committee, and then it reached you. You had to find out whether I had talked for the sake of it or whether I were near the truth, and you thought the best way to find out was to persuade me to see Georgina. Guy was in the wardrobe to listen to the questions I asked, to put an end to Georgina and I if the need arose. I stung him when I talked of Race. There was a big mistake on Dr. Race’s part, too. He was with you in the plot, and was too prompt in telling Blanding that Georgina took drugs, for when I saw her again this afternoon I realised that I had been wrong; she didn’t take drugs, she was suffering from great emotional strain. I’d suggested drugs to Blanding, and Race decided that it would be simplest if he said ‘yes’. A really grave mistake, wasn’t it?”
When Rollison stopped, there was no sound in the room, but the tension was not caused only by his words; some hidden presence, the suspicion that unseen eyes were watching him, the imminence of an attempt to kill him, all played a part. But he continued to eye Charmion, and went on, softly, because he wanted to hear any movement that might be made in the next room.
“Hilda Brent learned something of it – I suspect that she knew this woman supposed to be your wife, and learned through her. Anderson – I was very slow when I heard what Anderson said to you: he’d just seen your supposed wife, and when he told you that you allowed him in. He’d learned that she wasn’t your wife, probably he had also learned who that lucky woman was”—he could not keep the sneer out of his voice—“and as he’d seen her, he could only have learned it from these flats. ‘Lady Blanding’ also has a flat here, Charmion, hasn’t she?”
Charmion drew in a short, hissing breath.
“The commissionaire here is very loyal, but just an ordinary man. With what he didn’t say and what Anderson did, the story builds up! As for Dr. Race – I haven’t seen the elusive doctor, but doubtless he knew that Lady Blanding had no right to her name or position, hence his introduction to the magic circle. How am I doing?” Rollison asked.
Charmion broke his long silence with a soft: “You were worth fighting, Rollison.”
“Generous of you,” murmured the Toff. “So were you. So Race did know about her bigamy. Perhaps her carelessness encouraged him to muscle in?”
“It—did,” said Charmion.
“That’s fine!” said Rollison. He thought he saw the handle of the door turn, and calculated the chances of firing as it opened and at the same time preventing Charmion from moving. “What of Moor? You see, I don’t know everything.”
“Moor was a junior member of my League,” said Charmion, “and he remained faithful.”
“A grievous thing, when man has faith in base ideals,” said Rollison, ironically. “And, of course, you made him dance attendance on Georgina, because you were afraid of what she had learned. He was to find out what she knew and what she proposed to do. Of course! That was one of the reasons why she could not tell me openly. And she was followed when she came to see me at the Kettledrum; the card with your magic name was thrust into her coat so that she knew the risk she took if she betrayed her mother. What a choice for a girl! But she tried, Charmion, although she would speak no word against your woman. And—” he paused, again thinking that the handle turned, but the door remained closed. “Blanding is an innocent victim, of course. I’m sorry for him. That was what he was told over the telephone, why he will not speak – he cannot believe it of her, of course; he is sick to his soul.”
Charmion said: “You will be more sick.”
“I don’t think so,” said Rollison, but he saw in the words a threat of coming action; his nerves were stretched taut as he looked deliberately towards the door.
It opened, without warning.
Charmion’s real wife stood there, even then with an obscure smile on her lovely face. She wore tweeds, had not a hair out of place; obviously she had just made up. Although looking at Rollison, she spoke to Charmion. In her hand, pointing at Rollison, was an automatic.
“So he’s won, Gilbert?”
“No,” said Charmion, “he won’t live to tell the story.”
Rollison said, mendaciously: “It’s told; all Grice wants are the details, and he isn’t far away.”
“You won’t live to tell the story,” said Charmion, “even if we have to die with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Great Illusion
“Histrionics apart,” said Rollison, with forced lightness, “it’s an impasse.”
“I shall kill you,” said Charmion, dispassionately. “Dr. Race is in the room behind you, Rollison. He has had a flat here for a long time, although not under his own name. He and my wife”—he looked at the woman, and Rollison could well believe that he loved her; it was a strange thought, warping his whole idea of Charmion, whom he had imagined would live and die for himself alone—“used it when, it was convenient.”
Rollison mused: “The commissionaire thought there was more in it than that, of course. A useful man.”
“Don’t waste my time talking of fools!”
“Not a fool,” said the Toff, gently, “an ordinary man and an honest and loyal one – your faith in the common man is sadly wanting, Charmion. You’ve taken too many people for fools because of your previous experience. With your gilded tongue and your wonderful looks you fooled them – but a man and woman who are fooled are not necessarily fools, there’s a difference you might see one day.” He talked swiftly, backing slowly towards a corner of the room, to make sure that he could not be taken by surprise. “And now – for the Great Illusion!”
“If you think you are gaining time for yourself, forget it,” said Charmion. “I shall be warned when the police arrive outside – if they come. I know that there are two watching the front door now, but they don’t matter – when the end comes it will come quickly.” He spoke without a trace of emotion, but the expression in his eyes carried Rollison back again seven long years to the courtroom at the Old Bailey – all this, including the Great Illusion, had started then.
“I’ll take my chance,” said the Toff. “You’ve probably heard it rumoured that I like to hear myself talk. The Great Illusion,” he added, gently. “You had these clubs, innocent clubs behind good cover – your brother and his wife ran them, and your wife helped. Race supplied the drugs, but always in small quantities. The only real addict in this case is the woman you claimed as your wife. You had your troupe of performing parrots”—he sneered the words—“and your waiters. You had the whole thing set, it was another League of Physical Beauty – physical degradation would suit it better! – in embryo. You allowed a few poor girls to be caught by the police, you let one of the little men sell one the stuff and be identified, you drew police attention to the Parrot Club, knowing that they could not get past it, because there was nothing. Only one of the ten little men was named Guy, only one of the waiters followed me. There were too many for a correct identification, you played safely behind that. You built a great conception of a powerful drug-trafficking organisation, you—”
“You’ve said enough,” interpolated Charmion.
“Let him go on,” said the woman, smiling as if she were in a different world, yet holding her gun steady and with the drop on Rollison. “Let us see how much he does know.”
Rollison said, sardonically: “You’re quite an artist. But is there much more? You set the stage but made it impossible for the police to trace anything farther than the club. There was no great vice in the members, only enough to keep the police on a stretch and to make them search for the real
organisation, the real power behind the precious scheme – which did not really exist.”
The woman said. “You see, Gilbert? He knows.”
“I know,” said Rollison, close to the corner now and wary, although he did not think that they would make a mistake; he saw no chance of escaping, and was surprised that it affected him so little. “You had to kill Hilda Brent because of what she knew about your supposed wife, and you attempted to frame me. You drew attention to yourself, only to divert it. The really Machiavellian mind! You thought that you had me on the run, confused and apprehensive – and you weren’t far wrong! You added every little touch you could to make confusion worse confounded. You watched as the police went here and there, using more and more men, straining their resources to the limit.
“You watched while I tested each detail and tried to see the truth, but you thought your illusion was perfect. You had the police looking for a dope-ring that didn’t exist. You had me searching for the same organisation, which was quite brilliant. You told Anderson fanciful stories, making him think the organisation existed. You wanted revenge on me, on Hilda Brent, on the law that had cost you seven years of your life. You planned and plotted it in jail, your brother and the women put it into operation while you were inside, because you thought it could never then be traced to you. But for the other affair, with Blanding, you might have succeeded, but you had to mix cold-blooded crime with the grandiose hoax bred out of the noxious bitterness in your mind.” He paused, knowing that he still lacked the final truth, the Blanding side to Charmion’s plot. “You were influenced by the fact that you thought I knew of the Blanding gambit. I didn’t, you know. I didn’t work on your brother, either.”
“No,” said Charmion, “I only realised that today.”
“Georgina—” began Rollison.
