by John Creasey
“You are very kind,” said the woman.
Her voice had a huskiness which was attractive. There was a trace of foreign accent, too.
“After all,” said Rollison, taking her arm and leading her into the study, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time.”
“So I understand,” she said. “You wrote to me.”
Rollison did not correct her.
“And you lied to me,” she said slowly. “I can see that now— you have never seen me before and you do not know who I am, although in your letter you said you did.” Something of her vitality seemed to ebb, and she sat down slowly. Rollison took her coat and handed it to Jolly.
She looked up at him. “Why did you make me hope?”
“Not I,” said Rollison, “but a mutual friend. I’m glad that he wrote to you, because otherwise you would not have come.”
She frowned. “More knavery?” The word came naturally from her lips.
“More knavery which we can counter,” said Rollison, sitting on the arm of his chair and smiling at her. “Will you have a drink?”
She said: “No, but I am very hungry.”
“That can soon be put right,” said Rollison, and he rang for Jolly. “We will have dinner as quickly as possible.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly retired, and Rollison looked back at the woman.
If she were not lying by inference, her memory was no better than when she had arrived at Barrington House. It was too soon for him to be convinced that she was telling the truth, and yet he wanted to believe her. From the moment he had seen her photograph he had wanted to see her in the flesh, to hear her voice and see the colour of her eyes, to know the living reality of her—and here she was, dressed in a plain black evening gown, with shoes of black satin trimmed with diamante, without other jewellery or make-up, with her brown hair plaited and coiled about her head and shining with a soft lustre.
“So,” she said, speaking with great deliberation, “you do not know me, and you cannot help me.”
“Only the first is true,” he said.
She looked puzzled. “Why should that be?”
“Nearly a month ago, before you arrived at Barrington House, an unknown person sent me your photograph, and I have been at your command from that moment!”
She smiled. “An Englishman who is gallant!”
“There is more in us than you suspect,” he said. “So you know that you are not English?”
“That is one thing about which there is no doubt,” she said.
“The doctors were quite sure of that, and so they tried to make me remember what I am, and yet they failed. I remember nothing, except appearing in that gay ballroom, with many strange people looking at me. Then the room suddenly began to go round, the lights danced, the people swayed as they came towards me—and then, darkness!” Throughout that speech her voice had been pitched on so low a key that he could hear what she said only with difficulty. After a long while, she went on: “Darkness, and the hospital, and all that happened afterwards. I remember quite well.”
“Everything!” asked Rollison.
“Everything,” she said, “and yet not enough, for your police have asked me whether I saw a stranger in my room, and I remember no stranger; I remember only that I was sick, so very sick, and I did not think that I would live. Yet I am here —as I was there—seeking myself:
“With others also looking for you,” said Rollison. “Someone knows who you are.”
Her eyes lit up. “That is the first time I have been given real hope! Can you be sure?”
“Quite sure,” said Rollison. “They would not be so interested in you unless they knew who you were and what you are doing in England.” He remembered himself and offered her cigarettes, but she refused, and also refused another offer of a drink. So he went on: “What they know, we can learn, and when we’ve learned it then the doctors can help you to remember all that you’ve forgotten.”
“Almost you make it sound simple.”
“Few things are as complicated as they look,” said Rollison. “I wonder if the doctors or the police realize one thing that can be helpful?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you learned English in England or from an English governess with whom you spoke the language from childhood,” said Rollison. “Have they said that?”
“No. You are performing miracles, Mr. Rollison! I am already becoming excited.”
“After dinner you will probably get hilarious,” said Rollison, for he heard Jolly coming into the hall. “Now, you must have some sherry.”
“I do not like it,” she said.
He stared down at her, leaning forward a little, his eyes brighter than ever.
You see! Another thing you remember.”
“But”
“They don’t give you sherry in the nursing home,” said Rollison, “so you must have disliked it before you lost your memory. A cocktail?”
She made a face. “They burn one so!” Her eyes lighted up, not with the effort of remembering but because some things were coming to her mind so naturally. “There are two things I do not like about the Americans—they invented cocktails and they invented high buildings.”
“Which are called”
She stared at him, with great concentration, and then said delightedly:
“Sky-scrapers!”
“Sky-scrapers,” echoed Rollison. He was surprised by his own elation.
Jolly came in and laid the table while they talked gaily and irresponsibly, and for the first time a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks. As they talked, he recalled all that he had heard about her. When she had arrived at Barrington House she had no jewellery, no handbag, no papers, nothing but the clothes in which she now stood: clothes which Grice had told him were of American make and could not be traced in England. According to the police no one could be sure who had made her gown or who had supplied her furs.
Marcus Shayle had wanted to know what she said. He or some unknown person had tried to kill her. Another had sent her the letter which had brought her here
“You have thought of something else,” she said, seeing the gleam in his eyes.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “That letter. Whoever sent it wanted you to come here, and the man or woman who sent me your photograph also wanted me to meet you. So they were probably sent by the same person.”
“It is most likely,” she said.
Jolly had been busy with steaks and frozen peas and grilled tomatoes, and murmured that dinner was served. He hovered about them throughout the meal, while they talked and laughed with animation; this was a miracle; They drank sparingly of champagne, but enough to bring an added sparkle to their eyes, and behaved as if they were old friends who had met after a long separation. No stranger would have believed that they had met for the first time only an hour before.
She would have coffee, she said.
She grimaced when she sipped it, and set her cup down, without taking it up again. Rollison noticed that and made no comment. Then being a woman, she rose and looked at herself in a small mirror, and exclaimed in mock horror.
“Mr. Rollison, I am”
“Delightful.” he said.
“But my lips! And my cheeks! I am like a ghost!”
“A very lively ghost,” said Rollison. “Come with me.” He took her to the dressing-table where, spread out, was everything any woman could need for her make-up and her toilet; Jolly had found time to put them ready. She sat at the dressing-table, looking up at him, and he went out and closed the door.
Jolly was clearing the table.
“We’re getting results,” said Rollison, his voice much more confident. “Get that cleared as quickly as you can and then— Jolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who has the best collection of gramophone records of our acquaintance?”
Jolly considered. “Mr. Jeffrey, sir, or perhaps Sir Lancelot Anstey.”
“Sir Lancelot—he’s the man! Go and borrow
some records from him. We want the Yugo-Slav National Anthem—in fact the National Anthems of all the Balkan countries—some national music from them all, folk-songs, gypsy music, a good general selection. If Sir Lancelot hasn’t got them he will know where to find them at short notice, and I want them to-night.”
“I will obtain them, sir,” said Jolly, confidently.
“And Jolly, there is a curious, syrupy, bitter stuff which the Turks and some others call coffee. Have you ever made it?”
“I am afraid not, sir, but I believe that it is obtainable at several small restaurants. Shall I endeavour to obtain some of that also?”
“Yes. Don’t lose time, Jolly, but don’t take chances. She was probably followed here.”
“I have thought of that, sir.”
“If she were followed here it was by a friend; an enemy would not have let her come. So deal lightly with anyone you suspect.”
Rollison went to the telephone and he dialled Grice’s home number again. This time he was unlucky; for Grice was at the Yard. He had him on the wire very soon, and it was a jubilant Grice—a fact which puzzled Rollison, who had forgotten a great deal since the arrival of “the lady”.
“I was going to come round to see you, Rolly,” said Grice. “I’ll take back most of what I’ve said about you.”
“Why?” asked Rollison.
“We’ve got Marcus Shayle,” said Grice. “The Devon police have just telephoned me—he was at the address you gave me.”
“Now you know my value,” said Rollison. “Was anyone else with him?”
“No, he was alone.”
“A pity, but it’s progress,” said Rollison. “Now, a Roland for your Oliver—I have the lady here.”
After a long pause, Grice asked: “What did you say?”
“In the flesh,” said Rollison, “and we’re getting along famously. I hope you won’t interrupt us yet. I’ll see that she is all right, and I’ll get some incurious relative to spend the night here, unless—I say, old chap.”
“Er—yes,” said Grice, still taken aback.
“Have you a good woman detective who can play the part of a maid?”
“Yes,” said Grice, promptly.
“Send her over, will you,” said Rollison, and Grice, still elated by the capture of Marcus Shayle, promised that he would.
Rollison rang off, and looked towards the bedroom door. He did not think that his guest would be much longer, she had been there nearly a quarter of an hour. Jolly had gone, and the flat was very quiet. He lit a cigarette and smiled to himself, letting the mystifying development take second place in his enjoyment of the situation. He took the photograph from his desk and propped it up against the wall. Then, just as he was about to knock at the bedroom door, the ringing of the telephone bell sounded very loud. He answered it and said “Hallo”. A confused murmuring reached his ears, low-pitched and rather breathless voices which, he thought, belonged to women. He expected it to be a call from Phyllis or Janice Armitage, and that they were perhaps in a call-box together.
“Hallo,” he repeated, “this is Mayfair”
“Rolly!” exclaimed a woman, and he knew at once that he was wrong; this was Gwendoline, not one of the Armitage sisters. He frowned as Gwendoline rushed on, as if she had quite forgotten that she had snubbed and evaded him. “Oh, Rolly, can you come here at once?”
“Where?” asked Rollison.
“To the house—our house, Barrington House,” said Gwendoline, and then she broke off and another voice spoke, but Rollison could not catch the words. “Oh, all right,” said Gwendoline, in an aside, and added: “Rolly, mother wants a word with you.”
“Oh, Rolly,” said Hilda, after a moment’s pause. She was more breathless than her daughter, and he could tell that she was in a state of great agitation, “please do come over, David has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” echoed Rollison, sharply.
“Yes, into thin air,” said Hilda. “I’m so terribly worried, please do come.”
CHAPTER TEN
INSULT FOR THE LADY
IT was on the tip of Rollison’s tongue to say that he could not leave the flat and to ask them to visit him, but he changed his mind and said:
“I can’t come for half an hour, Hilda. Have you told the police.”
“No,” said Hilda. “No, of course not. I mean—no, well I don’t want to until I’ve seen you; Rolly, do come earlier if you can.”
“I may bring a friend,” said Rollison.
“Bring anyone you like,” said Hilda, distractedly, “but do come.”
“I’ll come,” promised Rollison. “Stay there and don’t get worked up.” He rang off and stood looking at the telephone, conscious of a deep disappointment because the tete-a-tete seemed over for that night. Then he telephoned Anstey, and found that Jolly was there. He told Jolly to take everything to Barrington House, then had a word with the o!d solicitor; were there any rumours about Barrington-Ley in the City?
“There are vague hints and suggestions,” said Anstey. “They don’t add up to much, but they’re not very reassuring. It would be better if he were in London instead of in the country. I even heard of a rumour that he has left the country, but I can’t believe that of Barrington-Ley. In any case, he has been seen in the City during the last week. I hope you’ve discovered nothing against him.”
“Nothing,” said Rollison, “but I know that his family is worried about his health.”
“Health,” echoed Anstey, sceptically.
“Health,” repeated Rollison, firmly, “and don’t go reading more into that than I mean.” He learned that Anstey was able to supply all the gramophone records that he wanted, and rang off. Grice had not renewed his suggestion that there was something wrong with Barrington-Ley’s affairs, but if the rumours now worried Anstey, Grice would know all about them.
He telephoned Scotland Yard again; Grice was still there.
“Give me a chance,” he protested, when he heard Rollison’s voice, “I’ve sent for your maid, but she’s off duty and won’t be here for half an hour. I’ll brief her myself.”
“Send her to Barrington House, will you,” said Rollison. “She’s to say that I hired her for Lady Lost.”
“Why Barrington House?” demanded Grice.
“Because they have a very fine radiogram,” said Rollison, cryptically. “Good-bye, old chap.”
He was smiling when he rang off—and then his smile changed to one of anticipation, for he saw the spare bedroom door open.
For the second time he watched the Lady of Lost Memory walking towards him.
She was transformed!
Her hair, no longer braided, was dressed Victorian fashion, and looked not brown but burnished copper. Two combs with jewelled backs glinted beneath the light. Her cheeks had a glow, make-up actually improving on nature; her eyes glowed, too; and her lips were enticing.
At her breast was a single diamante star, a paste copy of a famous jewel which had come Rollison’s way when he had been involved in a case where jewel-thieves had turned their hands to murder, and on her fingers two rings, also of paste but, at a quick glance, indistinguishable from the real thing. Nearly as tall as Rollison, not slim but with a figure to make most men’s heartbeats quicken, she stood in front of him.
“Superb!” said Rollison.
“You like it?”
“Like it is not the word. I marvel at it. Who taught you to walk, Lady Lost?”
“Lady Lost?” She looked startled.
“That is a figure of speech,” said Rollison. “How do you feel?”
“Happier than I can remember!”
“Splendid!” He stood back, still looking at her, and added with a twinge of reluctance: “We’re going out for an hour or two, to some friends of yours—the Barrington-Leys.”
She also looked regretful.
“They have been so kind to me, but”
“I think it’s wise to go,” Rollison said, gently, “we might get your memory back.”<
br />
She said, very slowly:
“I have been thinking as I looked into the mirror,” she said. “I have not remembered, and yet, somewhere within me there is a feeling that I shall not like it when I know who I am; it is as if some horrid thing happened, something which made me forget things which I always wanted to forget.” She held out her hand. “Please understand me.”
“I think I understand,” said Rollison. “You may be right, but behind that, further back in the years, there will be good things, well worth remembering.”
“Can you be sure?”
Rollison smiled. “You didn’t become what you are to-night by accident. This is the real you!”
While they were waiting for a taxi he helped her on with her coat, wondering whether Grice had sent her dress and the coat to every dressmaker of consequence in London. Molyneau might not have made the gown but could well know whence it had come.
He went out without a coat, and found it surprisingly cold —her mink was not superfluous. As they waited by the kerb he looked about him, but saw no shadowy figures suggesting that they were being watched.
The lost lady said:
“You have asked few questions, Mr. Rollison.”
“Very few,” he said.
“Do you not even want to know where I went from the nursing home?”
It was much better for her to volunteer information than for him to ask for it, and he was sorry that the belated taxi chose that moment to arrive. He gave the address and then sat back in the taxi.
“A man was waiting for me,” she said, suddenly.
“Where?”
“At the corner of the street.”
“A young man or an old one?”
“A young man—younger, yes, younger than you. A good-looking man, who was very amiable. He first took me to a cafe and we had tea. He said very little, only that you were most anxious to see me. We went then to a small house, I do not know where. I rested there while he was out. Then, when he returned, he put me into a taxi and gave the driver your address. That is all:
“Had you ever seen him before?”
