by John Creasey
As he reached one of the doors leading into the offices, Rollison heard the loudspeaker; and paused. The voice came from above him, and the girl spoke clearly.
‘Hallo, Campers, this is Radio Butlin’s calling.’ She paused. ‘It’s half past four, and we want to remind you of the evening’s programme. But before that, we can tell you that visibility is perfect—and conditions for flying couldn’t be better! So why not see this wonderful Camp from the air—as well as lovely Cardigan Bay, the Welsh Coast, and all the beauty of the countryside?
‘Free transport will take you straight to the airfield at four-forty-five and again at seven-thirty, after dinner. If you haven’t yet had this wonderful flight, now is the time.
‘Dinner, of course, is at six-thirty. Then for tonight …’
Rollison moved towards the door, and three girls came out. At first sight, they looked almost identical. They had bright yellow hair, bright, sun-bronzed faces, yellow T-shirts moulded to quite outstanding figures, and short white pants which showed equally remarkable legs. They all had blue eyes. They all looked at him as if at some fabulous film star.
He may not have known what was passing through their minds, although in all likelihood he did.
He was dressed in a blue blazer, a loosely tied silk muffler, white flannels with a razor-edge crease, and a white shirt. He might in fact have been a film star on holiday.
As he passed them, he winked.
He heard one go: ‘Oooooh!’
He strolled into a big, square hall. On one side was a snack-bar; at the far end was a long counter; at the sides were counters marked keys and inquiries. He marched straight to the long counter, past tables and chairs painted yellow, green, blue, and red. A big clock pointed to four-thirty-five.
Two girls were at the counter; they watched him, and smiled a welcome.
‘I don’t know if this is the right place,’ he said. ‘I have to see Mr. Middleton.’
‘Oh, a Redcoat,’ said one of the girls, and looked delighted. ‘Yes, this is right, I’ll show you his office.’ She pointed. ‘Go round that way, will you?’
Rollison did.
They met at the end of the counter, and the girl led him along passages between glass-walled offices. Dozens of people were busy in these, typewriters were clicking, comptometers working, people stood or sat at telephones.
He almost missed a step.
Jolly was sitting at a desk, with a nice-looking middle-aged woman talking to him. Even that brief glimpse suggested that she had already acquired a possessive manner towards Jolly. They sat before a huge ledger; she appeared to be lecturing. Jolly looked forlorn.
‘Here we are,’ said the girl, and tapped on a door which was already open. ‘Dick, here’s someone to see you.’
‘Dick’ Middleton was sitting at a desk at the far end of a small office. He was a dark-haired, fresh-faced man with plump cheeks and blue eyes; they were rather lack-lustre. He wore a red coat, with braid at the sleeves, a row of Camp badges on his coat lapel, and a thoughtful look.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘My name is Ryall,’ Rollison lied amiably. ‘Richard Ryall. I’m told—’
‘Oh, the new chum,’ said Middleton, who was in charge of Redcoats. He didn’t get up; he didn’t look particularly enthusiastic or, for that matter, hostile. ‘Come to show us what we’re doing wrong?’
‘Don’t let me fool you,’ Rollison said. ‘I just needed a job, and persuaded the Colonel that I was that good.’
Middleton laughed, a little reluctantly.
‘You have to be good, to get past him. Okay, May, thanks. Better come and sit down, Ryall. I’m busy for a minute, won’t be long.’
There were a dozen chairs round the walls. Rollison sat down. Two men Redcoats came in within two minutes, nodded, put something on the desk, and went out. A girl wearing a red coat appeared, dropped a sheaf of paper on Middleton’s desk, and went off, casting a glance at Rollison.
Middleton finished what he was writing.
‘Sorry,’ he said, casually. ‘Well, now you’re here, you’d better start learning the ropes. You’ve been to Filey, I’m told.’
‘For a little while.’
‘We aren’t the same as Filey,’ said Middleton. ‘Not in our internal organization, anyway. For the first day or two, you’d better take it easy. Let me give you a tip—don’t start throwing your weight about.’
Rollison was beginning to doubt whether he would ever like Mr. Middleton very much.
‘For some crazy reason, you’re to team up with Liz Cherrell,’ Middleton went on. ‘She’ll be in soon, and will show you round. I—’
He broke off.
A little man, wearing one of the red coats which were now becoming familiar, came breezing into the office. He wasn’t much taller than Rollison’s shoulder. He had a long, curved chin and a long, curved nose; he was a caricature of a caricature of Mr. Punch, and his cheeks were red as if they had been rouged. He had a slightly humped back, too – it might have been kinder to say that he had very round shoulders. His long dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, and his eyes were very large and brown; rather like the Colonel’s.
He had a small, well-shaped mouth.
Two small boys, of perhaps six or seven, and a small girl with pigtails, came after him.
‘Damn it, Pi, can’t you keep the kids out of the office?’ complained Middleton.
‘Won’t be a jiffy,’ said the Punch of a man. His shrewd eyes turned towards Rollison; he smiled. ‘My fans follow me everywhere! Dick, I’ve got a hundred and seventy-one under-fives this week, and I’ll have to have some more help in the afternoons. Just have to, or I can’t manage ’em. Sorry.’
Middleton’s gaze immediately flashed to Rollison.
‘That would give you an insight into the Camp,’ he said dryly. ‘Ryall, this is Peter Wray, called the Pied Piper here, or Uncle Pi. He’s the uncle to all the kids, and we’re swamped with kids this week.’
The Pied Piper grinned at Rollison.
‘New Chum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have upset our Dick,’ said the hunchback, ‘or he wouldn’t have wished you on to me. Still, he’s right—you don’t know the Camp until you’ve helped to entertain the under-fives! Okay, see you later. I’ve got to go and get rid of the mob outside,’ he added, and hurried out, calling over his shoulder: ‘Thanks, Dick.’
The two boys and the small girl followed him gravely.
Rollison looked out of the window, and saw a group of thirty or forty young children. ‘Uncle Pi’ Wray walked along the road leading towards a bridge which Rollison could see in the distance. The children followed him – all shapes and sizes, tinies and early teenagers.
‘Amazing what he can do with kids,’ said Middleton. His admiration sounded reluctant. ‘I’ll bet you won’t be able to compete with him! Kids drive me crazy. Last man who helped Uncle Pi was Peverill, and the kids drove him out of the Camp!’
He gave a twisted kind of grin.
Then a girl wearing a red coat came in.
‘Hallo, Liz,’ he said, ‘you’re late.’ He seemed to be complaining, but now spoke with obvious restraint, as if he could not be natural with the girl. ‘Here’s the new man we’ve had foisted on us, you’re to hold his hand—but not too tightly, or there’ll be some riots!’
The girl smiled.
She looked as if she had walked off the cover of the pamphlet; she was the Cover Girl come to life.
Chapter Four
Liz
‘Don’t be too hard on Dick Middleton,’ said Elizabeth Cherrell.
She was walking with Rollison away from his car and towards the chalets. There were rows and rows of these, with green lawns between each row, flowers and bushes everywhere, huge hydrangeas outside most of them. The chalets were painted different colours; the roofs were multi-coloured, too.
Elizabeth Cherrell wore a pleated white skirt of knee length; no stockings on nice legs, white tennis
shoes, a white shirt, and the red coat, and she walked with easy grace.
She looked earnestly at Rollison, who did not object.
‘Why not?’ he asked, shifting a suitcase from one hand to the other.
‘He’s had a lot of trouble lately. His wife ran away from him during the winter, and—’ Elizabeth broke off. ‘It’s soured him.’
‘Could being soured have driven her away?’
‘No, he’s a different man this year,’ said Elizabeth. He was all right last year—otherwise the men would tear a few strips off him!’ She smiled, but wasn’t too happy about Middleton – she talked too much about him, suggesting personal interest. ‘He doesn’t know who you are, of course.’
‘I should hope not. Our secret, yours and mine, and a few of the V.I.P.s. May I call you Liz, too?’
‘Everyone else does.’
‘Elizabeth,’ said Rollison promptly, ‘friend Middleton let an interesting cat out of the bag just now. The last man to vanish was Peverill—and he was also the last man to help Uncle Pi. Did you know him?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Know Uncle Pi?’ asked Rollison.
‘Everyone knows Pi,’ Elizabeth’s eyes glowed, making Rollison reflect that they were quite the most beautiful eyes he had seen for at least a year.
She spoke nicely, too.
‘There’s an Uncle at each Camp, to organize things for the children,’ Elizabeth said, ‘and I’ve known a lot of them—there’s never been one anything like Uncle Pi. The children will follow him everywhere. He can’t escape from them, they always manage to dig him out.’
They were walking along a chalet line. Two or three people watched them. A fair-haired man followed, at a distance. They passed doors marked Lassies and Lads and the open door of a furnace shed, where a man was stoking the fire to heat the water in this line of chalets. Here and there swim-suits or towels, oddments of clothing, hung on improvised washing-lines.
‘Your chalet’s in the next row—the end one,’ said Elizabeth. The sun turned her hair to gold. ‘Chalet twenty-one, Row J. And your assistant, Mr. Jolly, is chalet twenty-one, Row K—that’s backing on yours. There’s a communicating door.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Rollison.
‘Here’s your key,’ Elizabeth said.
They reached chalet 21. The door was locked. Rollison put his case down, took the key, and opened the door.
‘I think the best thing for you is to have a wash and then have dinner,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘I can introduce you to some of the other Redcoats afterwards, and we can go round to the rest tonight. It would be a good way to show you round the Camp, too.’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ agreed Rollison. ‘But Liz—’
She looked strangely subdued; almost grave.
‘Yes?’
‘You are going to help me, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. It’s my job.’
‘Is that all? No pleasure in it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, very quietly. ‘I just don’t know what to say. I don’t think I’m going to enjoy snooping.’
‘But we aren’t going to get far if you don’t answer simple questions.’
‘Such as whether I knew Billy Peverill. Yes, I did.’
‘Why didn’t you answer at first?’
She said: ‘Well, I couldn’t make up my mind what to say. Of course, I know Billy—he was here all last year. Possibly the reason he left was because Dick Middleton needled him so much. Dick knew that Billy detested working with children, he was the last man on earth to be detailed to help Uncle Pi out. All the others—’
‘The other Redcoats?’
‘Yes. They think that Billy Peverill just got fed up, and walked out. He wouldn’t want to tell anyone why he was going, he wasn’t the type to complain about anyone. He’d think that the best thing to do was skip, and he skipped.’
‘What about Tommy Tucker?’ asked Rollison.
‘Well, Tommy was always a bit restive. It puzzled a lot of them, but that’s all.’
‘Jim Campion?’
‘Everyone was really surprised about Jim, but he was the first to go, and everyone was so busy rushing about that it’s hard to think much about him. Jim was here once, and isn’t now. That’s all. With a fresh horde of Campers every week, and hardly a minute to call our own, we don’t get a lot of time to brood,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Now I must go. I—what name are you using?’
‘Ryall.’
‘No, the first name.’
‘Richard. It saved changing initials on clothes tabs and that kind of thing. Why?’
‘There’s no point in being called Dick,’ Elizabeth said, ‘it would only annoy Dick Middleton. Have you a second name?’
Rollison grinned.
‘Let’s make it Roland instead of Richard, and I’ll be Rolly—with a short O.’
Her eyes danced with his.
‘That’s just right, Rolly!’ She moved away from the door, but didn’t go far. ‘Do you—’ She hesitated, and he thought that she coloured, although the bright sky was behind her and it was dark in the chalet and upon her face. ‘Do you really think there’s anything to worry about?’
‘The Colonel does.’
‘I suppose that’s answer enough,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What else do you want me to do?’
‘Think over everything that Jim Campion, Tommy Tucker, and Billy Peverill had in common,’ Rollison said. ‘Such as a dislike of working with children, or dislike of Dick Middleton, or drinking at the same pub—and let me know any factor common to all three.’
‘All right,’ promised Elizabeth.
She smiled, and turned away.
Rollison went to the door and watched her. Whichever way one looked at Elizabeth Cherrell, she was beautiful.
He wondered why she didn’t want to take her chances on the films. He wondered why she championed Dick Middleton. He wondered why she was worried and whether she had any reason for trying to make light of the disappearances.
She turned a corner.
Rollison went back into his chalet, and closed the door. Small red curtains were drawn at the two windows. He pulled one aside, and stood close to the wall, looking out. He was hardly the same man who had talked to the girl or winked at the trio; or smiled at Uncle Pi. The Colonel would not have recognized him.
Jolly would.
Jolly had seen that tension in him before; the tightening of his mouth, the brightening of his eyes.
He watched, as for prey.
A man walked past the chalets on the other side of a lawn which stretched between two rows. He walked slowly along the path which ran outside all the chalets. He glanced towards Rollison’s chalet, and slowed down.
He had curly fair hair, brawny arms covered with a mat of the same kind of fair hair; brawny legs, with big calves. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, and he smoked a pipe.
He disappeared.
Rollison opened the door and watched, without letting himself be seen, until the man was out of sight. Then he opened the door wider, and with daylight streaming in, began to unpack his case.
The chalet was roomy, clean, bright. There was a hand-basin, a hanging wardrobe, chest of drawers, a chair, and a small metal table.
He had plenty to think about.
Dick Middleton, who was so ill-tempered; Peverill, who had vanished after doing a ‘turn’ with children; Elizabeth Cherrell; and last, but certainly not least, the curly-haired man. In fact, the curly-haired man was the most important.
He was an ex-convict, known to the police as well as to Rollison.
His name was Clark; Horace Clark. Or it had been.
The man known to the Toff as Horace Clark strolled past Rollison’s chalet. He did not quicken his pace until he reached the end of the row. He turned, and then broke into a run.
He ran fast.
The chalet rows were divided by paths which led from east to west, cutting across the paths outside the chalets. After turning left three times, Clar
k was soon back near Rollison; keeping behind some flowering shrubs, he could see Rollison busy in the chalet.
He grinned to himself, as if satisfied that he had not been noticed.
He walked away, and made no attempt to hurry.
Ten minutes later he was in the Mirror Coffee Bar, near the swimming-pools. There, the crowds were as thick as ever, and the water splashed, the sun made it heavenly. Only a few people sat drinking tea or eating cakes or buns. Three girls in white smocks were behind the serve-yourself counter; two others were collecting dirty cups and saucers from the tables, which were all gaily painted. The walls seemed to be made of mirrors. A girl sat at a piano, strumming away as if she had no audience; certainly she deserved none.
A man sat near the piano.
Clark joined him.
‘Hallo, Cy.’
‘Doing all right, Horace?’
‘Sure I’m all right,’ said Clark. He aped American phrases and even American accent; it was like nothing heard on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, but it obviously gave him a lot of satisfaction. ‘It’s the Rollison guy,’ he added, as he sat down.
‘Sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. It’s the ruddy Toff.’
Cy did not respond. He was thin, and when sitting down looked as if he were unusually tall. His knees poked upwards, as if he had folded his legs. He wore grey flannels and a green shirt. His dark hair was very thick and wiry.
‘He recognize you?’ Cy asked, suddenly.
Clark shook his head. ‘Not on your life, Cy. He hasn’t seen me for four years, wouldn’t recognize me if we were face to face, you needn’t worry.’ He began to fill his pipe. ‘What are you going to do?’
Cy did not answer at once.
Clark filled and then lit his pipe.
‘Not a thing,’ Cy said. ‘Not yet. We’ve got more work to do. We can’t get out until we’ve finished. Even if we could, I wouldn’t. But we only need a few days. We can fool him, we can fool anyone, for that time. We’ve got to fool him. We can watch, make sure he doesn’t get to anyone.’
‘Listen, fella,’ Clark said, ‘he’s good. I know we don’t have to be scared, but we don’t have to pretend he’s a sucker.’
‘We’ll watch him,’ Cy said. ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’
