by John Creasey
Rollison’s car was too far off for to be of use.
He ran to the garage, and called to two mechanics in the repair shop.
‘Is there a taxi?’ he asked urgently. ‘Or a drive-yourself car?’
‘Well, the taxis are all out,’ a man told him. ‘You could have that old Morris, but—’
Negotiations took only a few minutes, including a telephone call to Aird. People glared at Rollison because of his speed. He reached the gates, where a porter stopped him with arms outstretched, virtually at the risk of his life.
‘You can’t drive like that in the Camp! Why you’ll—’
‘A grey Vauxhall just went out,’ Rollison said, ‘Which way?’
‘You can’t—’
‘Which way.’ Rollison produced a pound note.
‘Okay, if you’re in a hurry, I’ll talk to you when you come back. That way.’ The man didn’t take the pound.
Rollison drove out.
The old car touched fifty, which was ten miles an hour too fast for the narrow, winding road. The countryside looked beautiful in the sun; there was a touch of magic about it, and the rain had freshened the trees, the hedges, and the fields.
He came within sight of Beck and the Vauxhall. It went straight on, past a signpost reading Pwllheli. Not far along was a huge board near the gate of a field, reading Butlin’s Airport. The gates were open. Rollison watched the Vauxhall, which kept on the main road and, after about three miles, ran on to a wide, smooth stretch, obviously newly made.
Ten minutes after leaving the Camp, Beck had parked in one of Pwllheli’s narrow streets. People thronged them. Camp badges seemed to be on every other lapel. Beck’s tall figure was easy to see, as easy to follow. Rollison kept him in sight without getting too close.
Beck went into two shops; Rollison noted the names of them. One was an outfitter’s, the other a tobacconist’s. Back in his car, the gaunt man sat at the wheel, lighting a pipe. Rollison’s car was parked some distance away; Rollison couldn’t see the Vauxhall when he took his own wheel, but he would see if Beck got out again.
Beck didn’t, but drove back, towards the Camp. Had the jaunt been as aimless as it seemed?
Rollison kept fifty yards behind. He saw a signpost and a big green bus, which momentarily hid Beck’s car. When it was past, Beck’s car was much farther ahead. Rollison put his foot down to catch up – and a car shot out of a side road in front of him. His heart made a wild leap as he jammed on his brakes. Hr jolted to a standstill only inches off the other car.
Two men jumped out and rushed at him.
Chapter Thirteen
Cy Beck
Rollison’s engine had stalled; he stabbed at the self-starter. A third man got out of the car in front and joined in the rush. This was a beating-up – where Rickett had failed, they meant to succeed.
He reversed, engine snarling.
He swung on to the far side of the road, jammed on his brakes, changed gear, and sent the car shooting forward. The men hadn’t expected him to get mobile so soon. One leapt out of the way, two others were already on one side. Rollison swung the wheel towards them. Another man leapt for dear life. The third flung something; it smashed against the window and dropped into the road with a clang, the kind of noise that a piece of iron piping might make.
Rollison cleared the trio.
He kept his foot down, and wasn’t surprised to see the Vauxhall drawn up in the shade of the road, half a mile along. He wasn’t surprised to see Cyrus Beck sitting at the wheel smoking his pipe.
He pulled up in front of the other car.
When he went back to it, Beck was taking his pipe from his lips. His eyes weren’t really black, but very dark brown; they seemed to burn. Occasionally Rollison met that rare bird, a man with the look of evil about him; this man had it. It was in the expression of his thin, colourless lips, the burning eyes, the face. A soft wind blew his mane of black hair.
Rollison said mildly: ‘Hallo, Cy.’
Beck didn’t speak.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get along too well,’ Rollison persisted. ‘I don’t like your boy friends at all.’
Beck still didn’t speak.
‘One way of dealing with it would be to go to the police,’ Rollison said. ‘A charge of assault and battery, with you named as the instigator, would keep you busy for a little while, wouldn’t it? I could fix Rickett, too. Any reasonable objections?’
Beck put his pipe to his mouth, leaned forward, and switched on the engine. He glanced away from Rollison, then back at him.
It was a moment when he could take and have a chance to keep the ascendency, which was not the Toff ’s idea at all.
The Toff stretched his arm out, and switched off the ignition. He beamed. Beck glowered and struck at his arm; and Rollison twisted his fingers, caught the bony wrist, and made Beck gasp.
‘Real hair or a wig, that is the question,’ Rollison burbled, and plucked at Beck’s hair.
He tugged; Beck’s eyes watered with a sudden pain, but the grip on his wrist held him rigid.
Rollison said gently: ‘Real hair on a bad man, Cy. One of us is going to get hurt. Don’t put your strong-arm men on me again. Understand?’
He pulled Beck’s hair again, lightly, then let him go, beamed, and went back to his own car. He guessed at the things Beck would like to say and do; in fact, all he did was to glower, put the car into gear, and start off. There was just room for him to get past the borrowed Morris.
He didn’t look back.
‘Cool,’ mused Rollison. ‘He’s not bad at all.’ He had an odd feeling, much as he had the previous night when the man with the flat voice had threatened him. Cyrus Beck was absolutely confident of himself; thought he could afford to sneer, to be insolent, to threaten. Well, he was shaken now – but it was odd that he hadn’t said a word.
Rollison got back into the Morris.
When he reached the Camp gates, he felt subdued. He was further subdued by the man on duty, who had ‘promised’ to talk to him later. He flayed Rollison with his tongue; only idiots or criminals drove at such speed in the Camp, didn’t he know there were children about, did he want reporting, who the hell did he think he was? The tirade was refreshing in its way. Rollison was humble and apologetic, and the soft answer did what it often does.
He was allowed to drive on.
Beck’s car was parked near the garage. Rollison returned the Morris and walked towards the chalets of the Middle Camp. About him was a multitude, bent on having a good time.
Beck put up a good act, an ‘I can’t be beaten’ act, but he was taking a lot of chances while trying to frighten him, Rollison, off. It was a modified form of terror campaign, and could mean only one thing. Beneath that arrogant front, Beck felt unsafe. He was going to feel much more so.
Rollison began to smile.
He went to Elizabeth’s chalet. He tapped, and she opened the door. She looked beautiful – as she always looked. She wore a green dress patterned with white flowers, not the regulation white dress and red coat.
She backed into the chalet, startled.
‘Hallo,’ said Rollison, and beamed. ‘Forgive me yet?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She had obviously been expecting someone else, and was disappointed; was she also nervous; frightened? He wished he could make her talk. He half-wished that he hadn’t tried to scare her into talking on the previous night, He remembered thinking that she might be just a little dumb.
‘My ridiculous idea that you might have tied your stocking round Dick Middleton’s neck,’ he said.
Her words came with a rush.
‘Have you—found out who did?’
‘Not yet. I hope you can help.’
‘I can’t,’ she said. It was almost a whisper. ‘I can’t tell you a thing. I know nothing.’ It was as if she had rehearsed a lesson, and this was the moment for its recitation.
He smiled – the kind of smile which could melt strong hearts.
He drew nearer, took her arm, and spoke as a benevolent uncle might.
‘Liz, I know you’re worried and you’ve plenty on your mind. Let me help. I don’t have to tell the world, the Camp big shots, or the police, if it comes to that. First and last I’d like to help you. Let me. What do you know?’
It was all beautifully said; and futile.
‘I know nothing,’ she insisted, and freed herself.
‘Oh, come. Lovely creatures like you shouldn’t go around scared of their own shadows or bad men or even boy-friends who take the wrong turning.’
It was no use.
‘I’m not frightened, I—I’m scared in case something else should happen to Dick, after last night.’ That was her own mind, working; it hadn’t worked very fast, which might be because she was living on her nerves. Certainly fear hadn’t come suddenly; she had been nervous before, edgy – scared. Last night had simply brought everything to a head. ‘That’s all.’ She added the last words defiantly.
‘Lies, Liz,’ Rollison said. ‘Who will they help? Dick? Don’t fool yourself. Tell me what it’s all about.’
His voice was cajoling, his smile should melt ice; but the girl stood very stiff, as if physically frightened.
‘You’re talking nonsense!’
‘All right, Liz,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘If you won’t help, don’t blame anyone but yourself if things go wrong.’
He was watching her very closely.
She bit her lips, but showed no sign of changing her mind. She even succeeded in meeting his eyes, and he reminded himself that he hadn’t seen such beautiful eyes for – well, it must be two years.
He put a finger beneath her chin, pushed her face up, and kissed her, firmly. Then he backed away. Her eyes stormed at him, she raised her hand as if to slap his face; then let it drop.
‘Get out of here,’ she breathed. ‘I hate the sight of you, get out!’
‘Liz,’ Rollison said, ‘I’m human. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’d like to help you, I will help you, if I can—it’ll be much easier if you’ll tell me how I can. I’m the friend with no axe to grind. I’m the only man on this Camp you can wholly trust. You can’t be sure of any of the others, can you?’
She didn’t speak.
‘When you realize you’ve got to have help, come and tell me,’ Rollison said. ‘And Liz—I had to be sure you weren’t bad, didn’t I? I had to be sure that you hadn’t put that stocking round Dick’s neck, and twisted, twisted—’
‘Don’t!’ she gasped.
‘Now I’m sure you didn’t,’ he said, blandly, ‘so I can promise you help. Don’t forget—there isn’t anyone else on the Camp whom you can trust. Not—one—single—person.’
He turned and left her.
He wondered how much she knew, and what frightened her, and why she wouldn’t talk of it. He thought of Cyrus Beck. He thought of a flat, menacing voice; a tall, lean figure in the shadows; black, frizzy hair; dark, burning eyes; and he felt the influence of the man.
How much more would a girl like Elizabeth feel it?
Or a man like Dick Middleton?
Were they both being blackmailed into helping, or at least into keeping silent, because they knew or had some idea about the fate of three missing Redcoats and one missing girl.
From a nearby shrubbery he waited for Liz to go out; that took ten minutes. No one was about when he slipped across to her chalet, and, using the master-key, went in.
He searched everywhere; moved the bed, the chest, table, everything; but he found nothing to help him, not a single dollar bill.
Outside the radio was sounding over the chalet top. Dancing – Holiday Princess – Tarzan – perfect visibility – hockey – would Mr. Ryall report to the office, please? – perfect visibility, why not see the Camp from the air? Don’t forget the Holiday Princess Competition. Would Mr. Ryall …
Ryall.
Rollison turned smartly towards the offices, only five minutes’ walk away. A broadcast for him meant an emergency.
He hurried past a children’s playground, where the huge toy soldiers beamed down on them; soon, he was in the offices. Girls watched him, two or three clerics looked up and smiled. He could see Aird through the glass walls. The Camp Controller was standing up, so was Llewellyn; there was a big man with them – a man in a brown suit.
Rollison reached the door, and tapped.
‘Come in,’ Aird said. He didn’t smile. ‘Glad you’ve made it so quickly, Mr. Rollison—this is Inspector Davies of the local police.’
Rollison switched on his party smile.
‘Hallo, Inspector! Nice to see you.’
‘I’m glad to meet a man I’ve heard so much about,’ said Davies, with a lilting tone in his voice and a smile in his eyes which suggested that he meant what he said; and was also mildly amused, as a good policeman should always be amused by the Toff; or, for that matter, by any private eye.
The Welshman’s smile faded into gravity.
‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me,’ he said, still with the lilt in his voice, ‘Mr. Aird thinks it’s possible that you will be able to, now. It’s about the girl, Susan Dell, who disappeared from here yesterday.’
Rollison said softly, almost fearfully: ‘Yes?’
He felt sure what was coming.
‘She’s dead,’ said the Inspector.
Rollison felt a stab at his chest, as if from a sword. He saw a pair of lovely eyes, nearly as beautiful as Elizabeth’s, gold with green flecks. They held appeal, too; Susan had wanted help, and he had failed her, and now she was dead.
This case was deadly.
How much had Aird told Davies?
‘That’s bad,’ he said. ‘That’s the devil. How?’
‘She appears to have fallen over the cliffs at Harlech,’ said the Inspector. He looked out of the window, as if to remind Rollison that Harlech was just across the water from the Camp. On a clear day one could see the famous castle whence the legendary men had marched.
She appeared to have fallen …
‘And Captain Aird tells me that you think you knew the man she was with, this man Clark,’ went on the Inspector. ‘Did you, Mr. Rollison?’
Aird hadn’t said much, then; Aird was silently asking Rollison to be cautious.
‘Yes,’ said Rollison promptly. ‘One of the odd things. He was a man named Horace Clark, who was sentenced to three years for a jewel-robbery. A London job—about six years ago, the trial was at the Old Bailey.’
‘Why, that will be a great help, it will indeed.’ Davies became enthusiastic; his manner suggested that there might be something in Toffs and private eyes after all. ‘I can get in touch with Scotland Yard and find the man, then.’
‘He’s missing, is he?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Davies, ‘he’s missing—that is, we can’t find out where he was last night.’
‘When did the girl die?’
‘During the night it must have been, she fell from a height—on the rocks, near Harlech.’ Davies made it very clear. ‘Well, I’ll worry you again if there’s anything else you can help me with.’
He shook hands; he thanked Rollison again; he assured Aird that he didn’t want an escort to the car outside, but Llewellyn went with him.
Aird sat on the corner of his desk; a worried man.
‘We could call him back and tell him more,’ he said as the door closed. ‘I didn’t want to, until I’d had a word with you.’
‘Not yet.’ Rollison was almost brusque. ‘No case. The girl and the man with her both vanished—but if he doesn’t connect that with the disappearing Redcoats, why should we make him?’
He didn’t smile, but looked at the window. He could pretend that through the haze across the bay, he could see the angry rocks near Harlech; and the green-flecked eyes, closed now; a lovely body, flat and flabby; life, all hope of ecstasy, all beliefs and all fears gone.
How frightened she had been.
How frighte
ned Elizabeth Cherrell was.
Aird said: ‘This has shaken me very badly, Rollison. I’ve been worried about if before, but this. Death—I suppose there’s no point in assuming that it was murder. Davies didn’t say much to suggest—’
‘Let’s assume it was murder,’ Rollison said. ‘Let’s take it for granted that it’s ugly and deadly—and that it might happen again. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll have an answer, or else a strong case for asking the local police to bring the Yard in. One or the other, guaranteed.’
‘I’ll speak to the Colonel,’ Aird said.
‘Meanwhile, something to do,’ Rollison said. ‘We need someone who’s absolutely trustworthy—two people in fact. One is to follow Elizabeth Cherrell, the other is to follow Middleton, wherever they go. We daren’t risk more disappearances.’ He didn’t add that from tonight he would be able to have these two watched by his own aides from the East End.
‘I’ll arrange that at once,’ Aird promised. ‘Two of my Security men will do—I’ll take them off general work. Like to see them?’
‘Later, thanks,’ Rollison said. ‘They’re not to let Elizabeth or Middleton know that they’re being followed.’
‘No.’ Aird didn’t ask why he named Elizabeth and the Redcoat leader.
Rollison told him what had happened during the night.
Llewellyn came in – broad, burly, looking rather more like a slightly smaller edition of Colonel Wickford White. He wore a kind of shocked frown.
‘I say!’ he breathed. ‘That’s a bad business. Poor kid. I remember her, too, very nice looking. Rollison, you don’t think it’s anything to do with—’ He broke off.
He wasn’t a fool; he must know that Rollison thought that it might be something to do ‘with’. Why had he said that? What was he trying to do – create too great an impression of his own sweet innocence?
Rollison felt himself doubting the man’s integrity.
He found himself doubting everyone as he went to see Jolly. Even Jolly was behaving oddly because of a middle-aged woman clerk.
At ten minutes past one Rollison was at the door of Cyrus Beck’s chalet. He had watched Beck and his wife leave for the dining-hall a few minutes before.
