by John Creasey
“Cray doubts very much whether her mind’s as blank as she says it is,” said Grice. “He told the matron to try her out with music, and we had a shot at Yugo-Slav national music as well as other from the Balkans. Reaction, nil. There isn’t much doubt that you’re right, and she’s a Serb—I had an expert have a look at her, quite early, and he said Serb or anyway Slav without any doubt. There are also other indications.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “What about Renfrew’s opinion?”
Grice chuckled again.
“He’s a very bright young man, most impressionable, and rather like you—if a handsome woman says she’s lost her memory he’s too much of a gentleman to doubt it.”
“I see,” said Rollison, heavily. “One for and one against. Did it ever occur to you to make sure that the test was carried out?”
“Now, come,” said Grice, “that’s a reputable nursing home, and in this case the matron would obviously be so eager to make up for the slip that was made.”
“You’re more trusting than I am,” said Rollison, “but then, you’re a policeman!”
Grice laughed.
“As a matter of fact, Rolly, I’m very pleased with the day’s work. We’ve Shayle, as you know, and this little man with the knife. Also—we know one name under which your lost lady is known.”
Rollison shot a glance at Jolly, and said:
“More guesswork?”
“No,” said Grice. “We had her clothes examined. The dress didn’t help us much, but a leading London furrier said that he was sure that the coat came from Loudens, of New York. Loudens have a kind of trade mark in their work, one which only a few people know. So we radioed a photograph to Loudens and another to the New York police—what’s that?”
“I groaned,” said Rollison, glumly. “All right, she bought the coat in New York. What’s her name?”
“Lila Hollern,” said Grice. “At least, she called herself the Countess Hollern and signed her cheques Lila. She was in America for six months, raising money—she said—for the Yugo-Slav earthquake Relief Fund.”
Rollison interrupted: “Countess Hollern isn’t a Serbian name.”
“She said she was married to an Austrian count,” said Grice, “and that her husband was a political prisoner for some years. He is now supposed to be in Belgrade. Everyone in New York thought her wonderful, she raised nearly half a mill inn dollars —and disappeared with it!”
“Are these facts?” demanded Rollison, sharply.
“The money was in her name at the New York bank,” said Grice, “and was transferred to an account in England a month ago. We haven’t yet tackled the English bank; they’re touchy on inquiries, you know, and I doubt whether I shall be able to get a Court Order for an examination of her account just yet —but I hope to, soon.”
“What about the Relief Fund?” asked Rollison, with sinking heart.
“The London people only knew about her from New York,” said Grice, who was remarkably cheerful, “and she certainly convinced them in New York. I shall have a full report by cable soon. The money disappeared, there’s no doubt about that.”
“So did the countess,” murmured Rollison.
Grice said gently:
“I hate to disillusion you, Rolly, but she did turn up in remarkable circumstances at Mrs. B-L.”s first big effort for a Relief Fund, didn’t she? Had she not been poisoned, she might by now have been an active member of that fund, raking in more money.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, “but it might not have been quite so simple. If you can stand an awkward question—why was she poisoned?”
“Do you have to ask?” demanded Grice. “Obviously because she is one of several people involved in the swindle. The other members did not like to think that she was to be questioned by the police. They much preferred to see her dead. That is a strong enough motive even for you.”
“It’s very ingenious,” murmured Rollison.
“I don’t think there’s much the matter with it,” said Grice, complacently. “Nor will you, when you know that Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy are handling the accounts of the London Branch of the Relief Fund, as well as Barrington-Ley’s accounts. It all ties up very nicely, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EAST END
ROLLISON agreed that it did appear to tie up very nicely, said good-bye, replaced the receiver, and stared blankly into Jolly’s face. After a while he gave the gist of the conversation, whereupon Jolly’s hopefulness faded and was replaced by his habitual expression of gloom.
“The only bright spot,” said Rollison, “is that he doesn’t propose to make an arrest, yet.”
“Could he arrest the lady, sir?”
“He could detain her for questioning,” said Rollison. “The truth is that he thinks he can get her whenever he wants, and prefers to have an unanswerable case before doing so. He’ll probably get some kind of story from Marcus Shayle. So, Jolly, more cause for gloom! Deep gloom, because Grice has done practically everything we hoped we would be able to do ourselves—my mind hasn’t been working lately, or we would have got this information first.”
“Perhaps so, sir,” said Jolly, unconvinced. “What do you propose to do?”
“We are going to prove him wrong,” said Rollison. “The little man with the knife and the footman at Barrington House are two people on whom we can check, and Grice gave me some consolation; he’s not very hopeful about East End contacts. I’ll go there in the morning.”
“What about the—ah—countess, sir?”
“You have not failed to notice,” said Rollison, “that at our suggestion a policewoman is acting as her bodyguard. So the police are responsible for her. I’m not at all sure that Grice isn’t holding his hand because of that. If anyone tries to get in touch with her, he’ll learn at once. If she tried to slip away, the maid would stop her. On the other hand,” Rollison went on, stifling a yawn, “there has been no crime in England of which she could have been guilty—as far as we know.”
“That is so,” said Jolly. “Is there anything more, sir?” Rollison shook his head. “What time shall I call you in the morning?”
“Nine o’clock should be about right,” said Rollison.
He was still asleep when Jolly came in next morning, with the ornate silver tray, the post and the newspapers. It was half-past nine.
“The newspapers are not very informative this morning, and there is no report of Miss Barrington-Ley’s accident,” Jolly said.
“Pleasure for Pomeroy,” said Rollison.
He looked through the post; there was nothing of particular interest, and he put it aside. Then he looked through The Times financial pages, and frowned when he saw the closing prices. Many of the companies in which Barrington-Ley had an interest were showing a fall.
As he looked over the headlines of The Record, he wondered why that enterprising newspaper had not followed up the story of the Lady of Lost Memory. Then he saw a single column headline which Jolly had missed. It read:
CITY MYSTERY WELL-KNOWN BANKER MISSING
Rollison read the story carefully. There was nothing in it that he did not know, but it talked of rumours on the Stock Exchange and pointed to the fall in price of Barrington-Ley stock, hinted that Barrington-Ley had been acting in an unusual manner and finally said that he had not been seen nor heard of for at least forty-eight hours.
Rollison put the paper aside, shaved and breakfasted in a hurry, and was soon on the way to Fleet Street.
Lila, Countess Hollern, if that was in fact her name, had not put in an appearance. In calmer mood, he could consider with more equanimity the possibility that she had succeeded in deceiving him completely. He remained unconvinced. He went over the events of the previous evening in his mind, and, remembering her face when she had heard the National Anthem of her country, came to the firm conclusion that no one could have acted quite as well as that. Consequently he was in better spirits than he expected to be, but he knew that the tempo of the case was qui
ckening.
His taxi pulled up outside the office of The Record.
The editorial staff would not come in until the afternoon— but some of the reporters might be gathered in the news-room or the canteen, before starting out for their day’s assignments. He found three of them in the canteen, and was greeted with a cheerful invitation to a cup of coffee.
“And what brings the great Toff along at this ungodly hour?” demanded a little red-faced man with a wrinkled nose and a wicked eye. He was a crime reporter of renown.
“They tell me he’s been frustrated,” said a tall, middle-aged man with a scar on his right cheek. “Perhaps he wants to become a newspaper man.”
“Not a hope,” said the third, the youngest of the trio. “Not one hope this side of the Great Divide, Rolly—we wouldn’t have you for a fortune!” He grinned and offered cigarettes, and then passed a cup of coffee. “Sandwich?”
“No, thanks,” said Rollison. He bent his eyes on the youngest. “Teddy,” he said, “I thought you would see that there was some life in The Record, but even you’ve disappointed me.”
“I resent that,” said the tall man.
“The Record,” said the little man, in a fruity voice, “is always first with the news, first with the views, a lively, witty, reliable and always accurate reflection of the opinion of the people. For exposure of all rackets, try The Record. Proprietor’s stated policy,” he added, with a grin.
“There isn’t much the matter with the blatt,” said the tall man, judicially. “It’s got its bad points, but it’s got a lot of good ones. What’s your complaint, Rolly?”
“The Barrington-Ley Bal Masque,” said Rollison. “Why didn’t you follow it up?”
“We squeezed it dry,” said Teddy.
“One day was enough,” said the tall man.
“I don’t know so much,” said the little man frowning. “I see what you mean. Now we’ve come out with this story about
Barrington-Ley. Is there a connection?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said Rollison.
“Your interest being?” asked Teddy.
“Impersonal,” Rollison assured him.
Teddy laughed. “What a hope!” He looked speculatively at the others. “Where did the Barrington-Ley story come from last night? Ticky found it, didn’t he?”
“Ticky?” echoed Rollison.
“T. L Keller, City Editor,” said Teddy. “He doesn’t often give us pieces of fruit, but he found something there.”
“Would he know that Barrington-Ley was missing?” asked Rollison.
“Now we’re finding out what Rolly’s after,” said Teddy, greatly pleased. “Friend of yours?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Rollison. “And he has many other friends. Many will be on the war-path. That article amounts to defamation of character, and whoever started it is likely to get into a serious jam, unless he can prove that there’s something in it. I don’t look on The Record as an organ of unblemished reputation,” went on Rollison, “but I thought a word of warning might not come amiss.”
All three looked concerned. The Record, with all its faults, was regarded affectionately by most of its staff, and they would be concerned if there were any serious likelihood of trouble for anyone among them.
“Ticky’s in, isn’t he?” asked the tall man.
“Unless he’s got his ear close to the ticker in the City,” said Teddy. “Shall I go and see?”
“It might be a help,” said Rollison.
They went up to the next floor and along many narrow corridors until at last they reached a door on which was the name: T. I. KELLER. A squeaky voice invited them to enter.
Two girls were at small desks against one wall, and a small, extremely well-dressed man with a rose in his button-hole was sitting at an enormous desk, which was littered with papers. The tape-machine at his side was ticking away steadily, but he was paying it no attention. A pair of bright, bird-like eyes sur-veyed the newcomers, and a bird-like face showed some bewilderment at the sight of Rollison.
“I am very busy,” he said, in a falsetto voice. “Very.”
“The age of miracles is about to dawn,” said Teddy. “Pause for a moment, old chap. Here is Old Man Doom come to wave a shroud over your head—Mr. Richard Rollison.”
Ticky whistled.
“I thought I had seen you before.”
Teddy grinned. “What a newspaper! A member of the staff who thinks he knows The Toff! Rollison says you’ve pulled a boner about Barrington-Ley,” went on Teddy, “and I thought I’d let you see and disabuse him. The old blatt is never wrong.” He winked, and went out.
Keller did not look at him, but at Rollison. He seemed worried, his eyes looked less bird-like, and he dropped all the pose of too busy to see him.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“The story isn’t liked in certain quarters,” said Rollison, anticipating the truth, “and there will be repercussions. Of course, if you can prove that he’s missing, that’s a different matter, although even then the comments about his companies are pretty broad.”
“Oh, they don’t matter,” said Keller, squeaking. “They’re facts—you can find them on the City page of any newspaper.
The other” he pursed his thin lips. “Are you from the family, by any chance?”
“They don’t know I’m here,” said Rollison.
“Hmm. Well, to tell you the truth,” said Keller, confidentially, “I got a little bit tiddly last night. Not a thing I do often,” he added, hastily. “I shot a line or two about the Barrington-Ley business, and a fat little chap who was in the “Chameleon” got my ear. Breathed deep, dark secrets. Barrington-Ley missing from home, family greatly worried, you know the kind of thing. I checked here and there—telephoned his country home and the London house, got evasive replies, and it all seemed to tie up. The truth is,” said Keller, a little sadly, “I ought to stick to the City. I always go outside when I’ve had one or two—subconscious longing, I suppose, I used to think I would make a good reporter. Er—seriously, will there
be trouble?”
“If I were you I would build a good defence,” said Rollison.
“Oh, I will. I will! It’s a good thing you warned me, or I would have forgotten it,” said Keller. “I wish I could think of the fat fellow’s name. He did give it to me. Smith, I think.”
“Or Brown,” said Rollison, sardonically, “or, by a great stretch of the imagination, Pomeroy.”
“It wasn’t Pomeroy,” said Keller, decidedly. “Nice little chap, very soft voice, looked like a butler.”
“Pointed chin with bags of flesh on either side?” asked Rollison.
“That’s the man! Now I come to think of it,” said Keller, “he was a bit anxious that I should know the whole truth. Usually they ask for a fiver for the story, and we don’t say no. He just wanted to dispense information. I say, is Barrington-Ley missing?”
“I shouldn’t rely on it,” said Rollison. “You can’t recall the fat man’s name, I suppose. Was it Shayle?”
“No,” said Keller, firmly. “No, it was something more common-or-garden that that. Smith has it. Or, as you say, Brown. I am a damned fool!” he added, shrilly. “Still. forewarned and all that. Very nice of you to come. I’ll have a de-fence like reinforced concrete if the Old Man asks me about it —and he will, he always does if there’s anything the slightest bit wrong. I say, old chap,” he added, with a sly look, “you couldn’t give me a pillar or two for the defence, could you? It’s your market, you know.”
Rollison said: “What time did you put the story in?”
“Oh, half-past one or thereabouts, it missed the country editions. That’s a help, the Old Man’s gone north, I think. Or was that yesterday? Why?”
“There was an attempt to murder Miss Barrington-Ley before midnight,” said Rollison. “You could have heard rumours of that, but because you wouldn’t put in anything you couldn’t vouch for, you didn’t use that story. That would sh
ow perspicacity wouldn’t it?”
“I say, that’s pretty good!” said Keller, beaming. “Miss B.-L. was hurt, was she?”
Yes. And if you have a word with Teddy and send him over to Barrington House to make inquiries, it would round off your defence,” said Rollison. “Of course, that’s only a suggestion.”
Rollison left the office, not dissatisfied. Before his righteous outburst at Barrington House, Pomeroy had made sure that the newspapers knew of Barrington-Ley’s disappearance, which was a curious fact, to say the least. Here was confirmation, if it were wanted, that there was much more behind the story than Grice suspected.
Rollison went to Aldgate by taxi, then took a bus along the Mile End Road. The people and the traffic streamed by him, and he felt stirred by this contact with the East End, which to so many looked drab and to him looked so colourful. People whom he knew or had met passed him, not knowing he was there, little crooks mixing with men and women who were as strictly law-abiding as any in the country, bookmakers perpetually warring with the police, professional pick-pockets and bag-snatchers who spent half their time in prison and the other half trying to keep out, but who did not seem able to give up the game. Here they thrived, amiable little people for the most part, with their own code of honour and a suspicion and dislike of the police which ran side-by-side. Nine out of ten he passed would no more steal or pick pockets than commit murder, but when the police wanted information about this man or that, they were sphinx-like. In many ways a strange motley, with a mixture of all races, Jews and Gentiles shoulder to shoulder in a curious fraternizing which so often led to many people, all self-righteous, drawing the wrong conclusions.
He almost forgot Lila, Countess Hollern, and over-shot his stop, so that he had to walk back along the crowded pavements, with trams clattering past him and shopkeepers’ touts watching him hopefully, for the rich sometimes came to the East End to pick up “bargains”, and complained when they were disappointed. There were two sides to every bargain in the East End.
