by John Creasey
“You’ve an impressive circle of friends,” said Grice. “Her type is as common as mud. She knew something of what was going on, and provided she came out of it well, she didn’t greatly mind. Shayle must be fond of her, or he wouldn’t lavish so much money on her.”
“Or,” said Rollison.
Grice frowned. “Oh what?”
“Or else he felt it wise to lavish clothes on her to make Sure that she kept her mouth shut,” said Rollison. “Perhaps there is more than fluff in that funny little head of hers. That’s only a suggestion, of course, and I may be quite wrong.” He offered cigarettes, and when Grice refused, lit one himself. “You’ll have her watched, won’t you?”
“Of course,” said Grice. He sat back and smiled, although his expression was grave and he seemed concerned. “Well, what about the Countess?”
“I’m a long way from convinced that she is a countess, or even if she is, that she’s half as bad as she’s been painted,” said Rollison.
“It isn’t like you to be so biased.”
“I’m judging from what I know of her. Bill, you started to base your case against her on the fact that she did not recognize certain tunes when they were played to her at the nursing home. That’s pretty thin.”
“It was an idea, no more,” said Grice, “and the rest developed directly from that. I’ve had a report in from the New York police,” he added, and took a telegram from his desk. “Read it, it might help to convince you.”
There was confirmation of the amount of money that had been raised by Countess Lila Hollern and of the fact that it was in her bank, under her name, and without a joint signature. There was also the admission that well-known members of New York banking circles and society had vouched for her, but a comment suggested that it might have been because of her looks. There was no doubt at all that the New York police considered that she had defrauded the public. The cable ended with the statement that action was being considered in New York, and the hope that if it materialized, Scotland Yard would be able to arrange for the countess’s extradition.
Rollison put down the cablegram and said slowly:
“Will you oblige them?”
“Not on the present evidence,” said Grice. “In any case I doubt whether the Home Office would agree—we’ve plenty to discuss with the lady over here!”
“When are you going to start?”
“When I know a little more,” said Grice. “Now, you’ve something on your mind—what is it?”
“Until she heard it in my flat, I don’t believe that she had the Yugo-Slav National Anthem played to her,” said Rollison, quietly. “I don’t believe the matron carried out the instructions and I believe she gave a false report.”
“You’re dreaming this up,” said Grice.
“Well, will you look into it?” asked Rollison.
After a pause, Grice said: “All right.”
“Don’t forget the police have made some errors in this case,” Rollison said. “First they let Lady Lost go from the nursing home”
“I’ve learned, since,” said Grice. “A visitor in a fur coat went in—and, naturally, when my men saw a fur coat come out, they had no suspicions. Later they saw another fur coat, asked the wearer questions, and then realized they had been tricked.”
The telephone rang as he finished.
“Grice speaking,” said Grice, into it. Rollison watched and saw his expression change, the skin grew tauter over his nose and cheeks, and while still listening he pressed a bell-push on the desk. At last he said: “Yes, stay there, touch nothing and move nothing, and allow no one else in the room. . . . If necessary lock the door, I will take the responsibility.” He replaced the receiver after a terse good-bye, and looked grimly at Rollison as a constable answered his summons.
Grice said: “Ask Chief Inspector Bernay to come in at once, then find out whether Sergeant Gorring is free. Tell the sergeant, if you find him, that we shall want everything for a case of homicide. He is to telephone Dr. Gray. Failing Sergeant Gorring, get Sergeant Anderson.”
“Yes, sir,” said the constable, as if Grice had asked for a sandwich, and turned and went out.
“Homicide,” murmured Rollison.
“If Phyllis Armitage told me the truth just now, murder,” said Grice, getting up. “I must pop upstairs and have a word with the Assistant Commissioner before I go. Are you coming?”
“Where?” asked Rollison.
“To the Lawley Nursing Home,” said Grice. “Miss Armitage went to see the matron and found that she has been killed.” He paused by the door, looked at Rollison thoughtfully, and then said with feeling: “There are times when you’re so uncanny that you scare me.”
Rollison said: “Uncanny? I simply look at the facts. I’ll see you there later,” he added, picking up his hat. “I’m going to Barrington House first.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TALK WITH GWENDOLINE
ROLLISON took the lift to the ground floor and hurried towards the exit, then doubled across the courtyard, to the surprise of several policemen. He turned towards Parliament Square, beckoned a taxi which was approaching, and when the cab slowed up, he said: “Wait for me outside the telephone kiosk round the corner—we’re going to Park Lane.”
“Okay,” said the driver.
There was no delay when Rollison telephoned Jolly.
“Is there anything to report there?”
“No, sir. Our guest went for a short walk with her maid and they are now both back at the flat.”
“Good. Jolly, go to the Lawley Nursing Home quickly. Don’t let the police know that I sent you, if you should be seen by them—say you were curious about the matron, or something like that. Miss Phyllis Armitage is there—presumably in the matron’s office. She has had instructions to keep everyone out, so go to the window and try to talk to her. Get her story if it’s possible, and then report to the flat. If I’m not there, telephone Barrington House.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
“Get a move on, Jolly!” Rollison rang off and hurried to the taxi. There was no sign of Grice’s car as he passed the Yard. He sat back, lighting a cigarette. There was surely no further doubt that the matron had played a part in what had happened earlier. The trouble was to find out how Shayle, Pomeroy or Malloy had known that the Lady of Lost Memory would be put under her charge.
“Wait, will you?” he asked the taxi driver when they drew up outside Barrington House. “I may be half an hour.” He was already walking towards the front door as he finished speaking, and noticed with some surprise that the front gates were closed, preventing the taxi from going right in.
The footman, Farrow, opened the door.
“Good-afternoon, sir.”
“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Miss Gwendoline in?”
“No, sir, she is not at home.” Farrow looked as if he were glad to say so.
“Mrs. Barrington-Ley?” asked Rollison.
“I am sorry, sir, but Madam is unwell, and unable to receive anyone.”
“Take her my card,” Rollison said, taking one from his pocket.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the footman, firmly. “The doctor was most emphatic—Madam is not to be disturbed. Madam was taken ill early this morning.”
Is she unconscious?” demanded Rollison.
“I have no information, sir, beyond my instructions.”
“When did Miss Gwendoline go out?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
As he spoke the door of a room off the hall opened and a maid appeared. Before the door closed Rollison heard Gwendoline’s voice:
“Tell him that he must come within an hour.”
“Very good, Miss,” said the maid.
Rollison strode past the footman, smiled at the maid, and reached the door. Farrow came after him, and when Rollison turned suddenly, he saw the man’s face set in alarm. The man actually stretched out an arm to stop him, but drew back when Rollison said sharply:
“Don’t ask for trouble!”
He was uneasily aware of the man’s tense gaze when he went into the room. But for the urgency of seeing Gwendoline, he would have paid Farrow more attention, for he had an impression that the man wanted to speak.
The morning-room was bright and sunny, with books in the corners and a small writing-desk, small easy chairs dotted about, and a low-sprung settee on which Gwendoline was sitting. She sat up abruptly when she saw him, and showed no sign of pleasure.
“I told Farrow that I was not at home.”
“And Farrow told me,” said Rollison. He closed the door, walked across and stared at Gwendoline. She looked as if die had had no sleep the previous night. Her eyes were bright and glassy, and her face was pale, the cheeks puffy beneath her eyes—obviously she had been crying. Her neck was heavily bandaged. Her hair was in disarray, and her tweed suit was crumpled. Cigarette ash covered the lapels and her skirt, and she looted almost disreputable.
“What is it now?” asked Rollison. “And why aren’t you in bed?”
“It was only a scratch,” she said. “My neck is stiff, that’s all. I don’t want to see you—I don’t want to see anyone.” Her voice was shrill with emotion.
“Have you been out this morning?” Rollison asked.
“No, I’ve been here all day.”
“Can you prove that?”
He stirred her to interest. She frowned, and then stretched out for a cigarette in a box by her side. Her fingers were stained brown with nicotine.
“If necessary, yes.”
“Has your mother been out?”
“No, she” She stood up quickly, wincing when she moved her head carelessly. “She had a heart attack this morning. I thought she was going to die. I think Andrew saved her life.” She looked a picture of despair as she stood there with the unlighted cigarette dangling from her lips, and her complexion rather muddy—never had Rollison seen Gwen Barrington-Ley looking so unattractive.
He said, quietly: “What brought the attack on?”
“I don’t know,” said Gwendoline, and then she flared up. “Why do you stand there asking questions? We asked you to help us, and all you did was to tell the police and let yourself be fooled by that damned woman! I thought you were a friend!”
“You make it very difficult for your friends to help you,” said Rollison, gently. “That doesn’t mean that they don’t want to. Gwen, were you speaking the truth when you told me that you had seen the woman at your father’s office?”
“Yes!”
“Did you see them together?”
“No,” she said, “she was waiting for him.”
“So other members of the staff must have seen her.”
“I thought you were a detective,” she said, sneering; that was not like Gwen. “It was his private office—there is an entrance from the street, leading to a small waiting-room, and anyone with a key can get in—anyone with a key. She had that key, do you understand? She had a key which I have never been allowed to use, even mother had never had one. That whore”
“Steady, Gwen.”
She flared up. “Steady, steady, steady! I tell you she’s a high-class tart, there isn’t anything to be said in her favour; I wouldn’t be surprised if she is behind all this!”
“All what?” asked Rollison.
“This dreadful violence! David’s disappearance. The attack
on me, and the at” She broke off, putting a hand to her
lips, and then added in a quieter voice— “and everything.”
“And the attack on your mother,” murmured Rollison.
She tried to stare him out, and failed. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. She was afraid.
“So Hilda was attacked,” he said. “Were you sending for Renfrew just now?”
She did not speak.
“You’ll have to speak sooner or later,” said Rollison, “you can’t keep it secret for ever. Gwen, what has made you behave like this? What has made a man like Renfrew stake his reputation on concealing from the police an attempt on your mother’s life? That is what happened, isn’t it?”
She said: “Damn you, yes!”
Rollison turned away and looked out of the window, where the grass was fresh and bright and a rose walk was ablaze with colour. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and the hum of traffic from Park Lane seemed remote from this seclusion!
“Gwen,” said Rollison, “if this comes out, and it probably will, Renfrew will almost certainly have his name removed from the register. He may never be able to practise again. I’m told that he’s a brilliant doctor, and I’m also told that he’s in love with you.”
You shouldn’t believe all you hear,” Gwendoline said in a muffled voice. “Talking won’t help, you can’t help, you lost your chance. Please go away.”
“There is too much at stake,” said Rollison.
“All you can think about is that woman!”
“And you and your mother, David, and several other people dragged into the affair, into danger and perhaps to disaster, through no fault of their own,” said Rollison. “Renfrew is one of them.” He hammered at that.
“Don’t keep harping on Andrew!” Gwen cried.
Rollison said: “There has been an attempt on your life, now on your mother’s, your father is missing and may be dead, the matron of the Lawley Nursing Home has been murdered”
Gwendoline screamed: “No! No!”
“In cold blood, not very long ago,” said Rollison.
Gwen stood up slowly, as if her limbs were operated mechanically. She took out a lighter and lit her cigarette, staring at him all the time. The room was very quiet.
“Who was the matron?” Rollison asked, gently.
“Is there—is there no hope for her?” Gwendoline asked.
“None,” said Rollison.
Gwendoline stepped to the window and looked out. Her eyes were half-closed, and looked too hot for tears. The cigarette drooped from her lips and smoke curved upwards, making her close one eye completely.
She said: “That matron is—was—a lifelong friend of mother’s. Mother financed the nursing home. David knew about it.” Her voice was low-pitched and monotonous. “Then someone found out. Pomeroy. I don’t know what influence he has over father, but he persuaded father to let the nursing home be used for—for people who were not ill. People who were supposed to be “resting”. I don’t know a great deal about it, except that father was uneasy. Violet—the matron—frequently protested, but there was nothing we could do; father insisted. Once or twice we knew that men or women wanted by the police were there under assumed names. It seemed madness, but—father impressed it upon us that we must not tell the police or make difficulties. So we let it go on.”
She paused, but Rollison did not interrupt.
“It has been happening for over a year now,” said Gwendoline, drearily. “It has been a constant source of anxiety, but the real worry has been David. Why did he let this man tell him what to do? If it were known that a man in his position was doing such things, it would ruin him. We were constantly afraid, and although he pretended that there was nothing to worry about, we knew that he was desperately worried. We tried to find out why, but couldn’t. It started from the time that Pomeroy came to see him. Many queer things happened from that time onwards. He transferred some of his business to Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. He used them as the accountants and solicitors for the various charities which mother—mother tries to help. It didn’t seem to matter what Pomeroy wanted, he let them have their own way. I think they know where he is now.”
Into a pause, Rollison said:
“Pomeroy made you keep away from me, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you obey him?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We were afraid for father—we did not know what harm Pomeroy could do. And now Vi is dead, there will be an inquiry, everything will come out.”
“Are you sure that you don’t know what?” demanded Rollison.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, I’m not lying now. There is no point in lying. The police will find out what happened at the nursing home, they will learn that mother financed it, they will ask questions—questions—questions! I’ve hated the sight of a policeman since this happened, I’ve hated the sight and mention of them!”
“The police will do nothing that isn’t necessary and won’t rake up muck for the sake of it. If a thing is done under coercion, the police don’t take such a serious view. That is, for crimes short of murder. Have there been any mysterious deaths at the nursing home?”
“No,” Gwen said, and then added almost inaudibly: You know what violence there has been.”
“You mean the attempt to kill the mystery lady?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about it beforehand?” he asked, gently.
“I haven’t sunk as low as that,” she said. “No, but I knew afterwards that Pomeroy was aware of it. I heard Pomeroy talking to someone on the telephone. He had arranged that a new nurse, Armitage, should be engaged—that was done through father’s influence. I didn’t hear all the conversation, but I gathered that she was to be blamed for it. He had some particular reason for that, I don’t know what it was.” She turned and looked at him steadily. “If she had been arrested I would have told you, if not the police. Mother and I were quite determined, but when she was not affected, we did nothing. It seemed as if the police discovered the man who did it—did they?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “His name was Shayle, Marcus Shayle.” When Gwen showed no interest, he went on: “A man of about twenty-seven or eight, pleasant-looking, with a round face and fair, curly hair. Does that sound familiar?”
“No,” said Gwen.
“You’ve never seen such a man with Pomeroy?”
“No.”
“All you know about that, then, is that Pomeroy wanted the woman dead, and also arranged, or tried to arrange, that someone else should be found guilty of her murder,” said Rollison. “You didn’t get any indication of the reason why he wanted that done?”
“No.”
“Gwen,” said Rollison, after a pause, “you have shown that you hate this woman, and you knew that someone wanted to murder her. If this story comes out, and it may well do so, it might be thought that you condoned it. You haven’t yet told me why you hate her so much. You must.”
