by John Creasey
“Give me Superintendent Grice, please,” he said.
The smile had faded completely from Shayle’s face. He took a step forward and much of the pleasantness had gone, like his smile. In fact he looked disagreeably surprised and uncertain.
“I didn’t tell you to ask for anyone,” he said.
“I know you would like to fly high,” murmured Rollison. “Hallo? . . . Oh, he’s not in . . . . No, I won’t leave a message, unless—hold on a moment, will you?” He turned to Shayle, and asked, politely: “Would you like to leave a message?”
“No,” said Shayle, curtly.
“No, no message,” said Rollison, and replaced the receiver. He took out his cigarette case and proffered it. Shayle waved it aside. He lit a cigarette, replaced the case, and smiled. “Checkmate,” he said. “Or your move.”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded Shayle.
“I thought I was an expert cracksman,” said Rollison. “Where do we go from here?”
“What do you want?” demanded Shayle.
“Freedom from fear for the fair sex,” murmured Rollison, and saw that the thrust reached home. “Or—who put the poison in the Neuro-Phosphates? My dear chap, aren’t you well?”
“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Shayle. “You have the nerve to break into this office and to start uttering threats”
“No threats meant, only taken,” smiled Rollison. “We aren’t getting very far, are we? May I see who’s with you?”
“Get out of here!” snapped Shayle.
“After all.” said Rollison, reasoningly, Tm only looking for a pair of painter’s overalls with a large gun-pocket, and that’s the kind of thing I might find anywhere.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean!”
“Then let’s make ourselves comfortable and I’ll tell you a story,” said Rollison. He stepped to the door of Pomeroy’s room and, before Shayle could stop him, thrust it open. It struck an obstruction on the other side and swung back against Rollison’s hand, but he was ready for it and thrust it open again. Into the middle of the office a man was staggering back —a little round podge of a man who held his plump right hand to his face and whose eyes were watering freely. He wore a remarkable suit of red, yellow and white check, and looked a very sporting gentleman.
“Mr. Pomeroy, I presume,” murmured Rollison.
Mr. Pomeroy, if it were he, was bereft of words. He took a colourful handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed gingerly at his nose, while Shayle strode forward and clapped a hand on Rollison’s shoulder, with the manifest intention of swinging him round and throwing him out of the office. Rollison steeled himself so that Shayle could not move him, and looked into the eyes which were no longer merry, but blazing with anger.
Rollison slipped from Shayle’s hold without trouble, eyed the men thoughtfully and noted the bright red spots on the coloured handkerchief; the sporting gentleman’s weak feature was obviously his nose.
Neither of the others spoke.
“The fount of words dries up,” said Rollison. “Perhaps that’s just as well. Listen to me with great care. I have a reputation for liking the ladies, and on my visiting list at the moment are two—Miss Phyllis Armitage and the forlorn one at the Lawley Nursing Home. I should hate anything to happen to either of them. As a matter of fact there are three, for there is Miss Armitage’s younger sister. Do I make myself clear?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SEPTEMBER THE THIRTIETH
THE sporting gentleman appeared to be solely concerned with his nose, although now and again he shot a quick, birdlike glance at Rollison. Neither of them spoke, and Rollison judged it the right moment to withdraw. He did not think the police would be long in arriving, and they would probably hold Shayle for questioning.
“I hope you’ll remember,” he said.
Shayle took a step forward, as if to prevent him from leaving, but changed his mind. The other stopped dabbing his nose and glared at him. It was a peculiar glare. Most people would have thought the fat man a witless creature of no account, but his expression was not far removed from malignance.
Rollison went into the outer office, closing the door behind him. He stepped across to the passage, and hurried down the steps.
He hoped to find Grice coming along the road, but there was no sign of the Wolseley. He walked across the road to the amusement hall, from whence the strident cacaphony was apparently affording amusement to a small crowd gathered at the entrance. Near the door were glass-enclosed machines filled with tiny glass balls with which were mixed a variety of glittering articles, apparently of great value. For sixpence one could pull a handle which operated a small crane and disport oneself trying to get a glittering article between the claws and so win it as a prize. At the far end of the hall was a rifle range and clay pipes and pigeons, round the walls were a remarkable variety of machines, all patronized and all offering something for nothing in a game of skill which certainly skilfully avoided the gaming laws. From the depth of the hall came warm, rather smelly air, as well as the noises of machines and men and women, the clink of coins and the jovial, congratulatory voice of an attendant when a player won a prize.
There was no sign of Jolly.
He had stationed himself at one of the machines near the door to get a better view of 88g The Strand, and Rollison had expected to find him still there. He stood near the entrance, pretending to watch the fun and games, and actually looking for Grice’s car. It did not come. After a quarter of an hour the fat little man came out of the doorway, looked rather nervously in each direction, and then hailed a taxi. A stream of traffic prevented Rollison from crossing the road quickly, and the taxi was out of sight, going towards Trafalgar Square, before he could get another cab. Grimly, Rollison resigned himself to waiting for Shayle.
At last Grice arrived.
Rollison watched the Superintendent get out and hurry into the building accompanied by two sergeants. He expected them to be some time, and to come out with Shayle. They were less than ten minutes, and they came out without him. Rollison overcame the temptation to show his presence, and watched Grice drive away. Obviously Shayle had made his way out by a back entrance. He dallied with the idea of making a quick search of the offices, decided against it and walked through the gathering dusk towards Piccadilly.
In the affair so far there were all the makings of discord with the police.
A light was shining from the window of his living-room, and as he walked towards the house he saw Jolly, drawing the curtains. That was more cheering, and he hurried up the stairs, let himself in with a key, and met Jolly coming out of the bedroom.
“Did the Fun Fair make you tired?” There was an unusual edge to Rollison’s voice.
“No, sir,” said Jolly, “I thought it wise to leave when faced with the need for making a quick decision without being able to consult you.”
“Oh,” said Rollison.
“Some five minutes after you went into the building, sir,” said Jolly, with great deliberation, “Miss Gwendoline Barrington-Ley arrived.” His expression did not change when he saw Rollison’s astonishment. “I was greatly interested, of course, and somewhat surprised when she came out after a very few minutes and walked back towards Trafalgar Square. I thought it wise to follow her, and was somewhat disappointed when she returned on foot, to Barrington House. I thought it better to return here.”
“Quite rightly,” said Rollison. “Get me a drink, Jolly,”
“Whisky, sir?”
Yes. Don’t spare the soda.”
Rollison sat down and watched his man get the drink from a chiffonier of great age, which vandals said was now a cocktail cabinet. He took the glass and drank slowly. Jolly hovered in the background for some minutes, and then walked towards the door.
“Don’t go,” said Rollison.
“Very good, sir.” Jolly went over to the book-cases in the corner of the room and appeared to interest himself in straightening the books on the shelves. A
fter a long silence, Rollison spoke as if to himself:
“That suggests that she did not tell me all the truth, doesn’t it?”
“A possibility which you had already considered, sir.”
“And which I hoped wouldn’t be substantiated,” said Rollison. “Jolly, I am not covering myself with glory. I’ve prevented Grice from catching Marcus Shayle—your pleasant young man. And how pleasant!” Rollison finished his whisky, lit a cigarette, and began to talk, going over everything that had happened in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were anxious to get it all clear in his own mind.
Jolly did not interrupt. He showed some concern when he heard of the poisoning and of the man with the gun, and when at last Rollison finished, he said:
“You appear to have been instrumental in saving Miss Armitage from injury, sir, and you may have been just in time to save the unknown lady.”
“No credit where no credit’s due,” said Rollison. “The matron was telephoning the doctor, and that was not because I was on the spot. The unknown lady—what shall we call her?”
After a moment, Jolly suggested: “Lady Lost, sir?”
“I suppose that’s as good as anything,” said Rollison. “Where was I?” He went on with hardly a pause. “Lady Lost was in no great danger; obviously the poison was not enough to kill her. I think my painter would have shot Phyllis Armitage, but now that these people know that the police have visited Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, she will probably be all right. It isn’t often that a man thinks it worth taking a potshot at someone who might be able to give evidence against him.” He paused. “Well. I want to know who sent me that photograph. I think I’ll have a snack and then go to Barrington House.”
“I will prepare something for you at once,” said Jolly.
Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, only to learn that Grice had left for home. He tried the Chelsea number, and was answered by the Superintendent.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me that the girl had given you Shayle’s name?” demanded Grice. “You try one’s patience beyond endurance. You went to see Shayle, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Rollison.
“You’re never happy unless you think you’re one step ahead of us,” complained Grice. “Did you see Shayle?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Rollison, apologetically.
“I suppose you know you scared him away?”
“Late arrival of the police is hardly a fault of mine,” murmured Rollison. “In any case, Shayle caught me on the wrong foot. While I was in his office I telephoned the Yard. You weren’t there.”
“Then why didn’t you wait until I arrived?”
“I did,” said Rollison. “Shayle went out the back way.”
“Was he there alone?”
“No,” said Rollison. He told Grice about the gentleman in sporting tweeds, and mentioned that because his nose had come in contact with the door it might be red and swollen. By the time the conversation was over and Jolly had come in with a tray on which was an omelette, Grice was mollified though obviously not pleased. He assured Rollison that Phyllis Armitage would be watched, not only because she might not have told the whole truth, but because she might be in personal danger. At least, thought Rollison, he accepted the theory that the pseudo-painter had meant to prevent her from talking.
Rollison sat down and began to eat, and then said:
“There is a snag about Shayle—have you seen it, Jolly?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Shayle wanted Phyllis Armitage to go back on duty. Would he have worried about that if Lady Lost had been dead— or if he thought she would die? Why did he try to poison her, and then show such anxiety about her well-being? Why did he get the nurse out of the room, when, later, he wanted her to report to him anything that Lady Lost said?”
“I see, sir,” said Jolly.
“Contradictory motives,” remarked Rollison.
He continued to eat, making an occasional comment. Jolly interpolated a word now and again, but did nothing to brighten his spirits. A little before half-past nine Rollison left for Barrington House. Lights were shining through gaps in the curtains as he entered the garden. There as a wait of some minutes after he had rung the bell, and then a footman opened the door—the man who had been on duty that morning. He recognized Rollison on sight.
“Good-evening, sir.”
“I’m a little late,” said Rollison. “Is Mrs. Barrington-Ley at home?”
“I believe so, sir. If you will wait just one moment, I will make sure.”
The footman went off, and as Rollison waited in the hall he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. While showing great interest in an oil-painting which he did not admire, he looked about him. There were several closed doors, and only one, on the first landing, which was ajar. A light was coming from it, and there was a shadow on the wall nearby. Rollison turned towards the opposite wall, and, after a moment, swung round quickly.
Outlined in the doorway was the round face of the sporting gentleman, his nose very swollen!
The man closed the door quickly. Rollison moved slowly towards the stairs, but before he reached them the footman came from a downstairs room and announced that Mrs. Barrington-Ley would see him.
“Thanks,” Rollison said. “Who is the gentleman in draughtboard tweeds?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The man I saw upstairs just now,” said Rollison.
He thought that the man was going to be evasive, but the fellow changed his mind, and said:
“Perhaps you mean Mr. Pomeroy, sir.”
“Has he a right to be here?”
The footman stared. “Naturally, sir, or he wouldn’t be here. Perhaps you would like to inquire from Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”
There was an undercurrent of insolence in the man’s manner, reminding Rollison of his earlier doubts. He nodded, and walked to the door of the sitting-room.
Hilda Barrington-Ley rose quickly from an easy chair and approached him with hands outstretched. She was a demonstrative little creature for whom most of her friends had much affection. She wore an evening gown of midnight blue satin, in which she looked chic and attractive—and, thought Rollison, she was trying hard to pretend that she had nothing on her mind.
“Why, Rolly, how delightful!”
“The word is beautiful.” smiled Rollison, taking her hands. “You ought to be prostrate after the ball, and instead you look as if you want to compete with the morning dew. How are you?”
“Very pleased,” said Hilda. “We made nearly six thousand pounds for charity, Rolly, isn’t it magnificent? I do wish you had been there, but how sweet of you to send a cheque. Do sit down. What will you have to drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Oh, you must!” She fluttered to a table where there were decanters, bottles and glasses which shone in the light from an electric chandelier. I feel like champagne,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you do. Whisky or brandy?”
Rollison laughed. “Whisky, thanks. You’re very bright.”
“Haven’t I every reason to be bright?” she demanded.
“I suppose so. Hilda” He stepped to her side and
watched her handle the decanter, the rings on her small, white hands glittering, everything about her light and lively and lovely. She deliberately ignored the more sober note in his voice as he went on: “Who is Pomeroy?”
“Pomeroy?” echoed Hilda. Her hand tightened on the glass, but she had herself under control and looked at him brightly. “Oh, that funny little fat man. He’s come to see David. Isn’t he sweet?”
“Why does he want to see David?” demanded Rollison.
“I don’t know,” said Hilda. “Is that as you like it?” She handed him his glass and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I never interfere with anything David does. Finance is absolutely beyond me, Rolly. Cheers!”
“Cheers,” said Rollison, and sipped his drink. “Is David in?”
“No,
he’s not,” said Hilda. “But you know what it is like these days—loans for Africa, loans for India, loans for every country which needs them; he’s so busy, poor dear, that he hardly ever gets in early. Oh! If you’re thinking of Mr. Pomeroy, he’s waiting for David—he said he would wait until half-past ten, and I didn’t like to refuse him, although goodness knows when David will come back. Is that all right?”
“I can’t interfere,” said Rollison, deliberately obtuse.
“I mean the whisky?”
“Oh, yes, thanks.” Rollison followed her as she walked to a chair, and sat down. He had not suspected Hilda of such ability to dissemble. She was worried, but determined not to admit it. “How is the lady of the lost memory?” he asked, casually.
“Poor thing, she’s had a relapse,” said Hilda, brightly. “I was hoping she would be able to come here for a few days, but she isn’t likely to be released from the nursing home for a week. Perhaps she’ll have recovered her memory by then. Wasn’t it a strange business?”
“Very.”
“No one seems to know her,” said Hilda. “After the story in the newspaper I quite thought a lot of people would prove they had seen her before. A few have claimed to know her; a policeman was here a little while ago and he told me so, but he said they were just seeking publicity. Don’t people do strange things?”
“Very strange,” agreed Rollison.
“But then, you’re an expert on odd happenings, aren’t you?” said Hilda. She put down her glass. “Why, Rolly! Perhaps you can help her!”
“What makes you say that?” asked Rollison, a little heavily.
“Why, it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” asked Hilda, eagerly. “It’s exactly the kind of thing that interests you—I’ll introduce her to you when she’s a little better. Will you have another?”
“No, thanks,” said Rollison. “And I ought to be going.”
“What, so soon?” Her voice suggested that she wanted him to stay, but she stood up promptly. “Do come again when you can spare a few minutes, Rolly, and if you are interested in my lost lady, that would be splendid!”
