by John Creasey
Chapter Six
Fear
Rollison had never known a greater fear.
It was worse because he was only half conscious; the blow on the back of his head had been so severe. He knew that there was little he could do to save himself, and that he would not be able to swim. All these things flashed through his mind as the river seemed to rise up to meet him. He saw the muddy wavelets splashing against the cold stones of the parapet, even saw great white clouds reflected in the water; and then fell flat on his belly. The water closed about him. He gasped at the moment of impact, and took in a great mouthful of the river; it made him want to choke.
He knew that he must not panic; he must simply get to the surface; if he started to struggle he would take in so much water that he would drown himself. He felt the strength of the current, pulling hard at him, and began to strike out with his arm. He struck soft, oozy mud; so he was right at the bottom. God! The river was six or seven feet deep at high tide.
The fear was greatest because he could not make himself obey his own reason. He struggled; and retched, swallowed more water, and felt it going deep into his lungs. He knew the panic which drowning could bring to a man.
He must not struggle.
How could he avoid it? He had to breathe. There was only the thick, muddy water about him, stinging his eyes, thick and noisome on his tongue. Arms straight out, hands together, as in a dive, feet together; then he would reach the surface. But why didn’t he? Why did it take so long? The water was like a great weight pressing remorselessly against him. He would have to try to breathe. He could not stay like this any longer. There was an excruciating pain at his chest.
Then suddenly brightness struck painfully at his eyes; he had surfaced. Here was the moment of greatest danger and greatest hope. He was fully conscious now, shock and the fear had done at least that for him. He drew in a deep breath, felt water lapping against his chin, and struck out, not thinking or caring where he was going. The water surged out of his stomach. He felt sick, but was no longer in acute danger. He was swimming enough to keep afloat, although the weight of water in his clothes was so great that he would take a long time to reach the side.
Then he heard voices. He looked round, glimpsing a crowd of people on the parapet, and not far from him, a lifebelt which was secured by a rope to the parapet railings. He struck out for the lifebelt, clutched it, and knew that there was nothing more to fear.
He could rest.
He was beyond thought for a few seconds, except for the vague understanding that people were shouting and telling him that a boat was coming; all he had to do was to hold on. As if he didn’t know. The sun struck warm on his face, but his body was cold, and he kept shivering. They were a long time bringing that boat. It was a good thing he had contrived to stay on the surface, for he would have had scant chance if he had depended on help from passers-by. Who could blame them? He began to think, vaguely at first, and to wonder who had attacked him, and why? Had his assailants escaped, or had the crowd caught them? Good Lord! This had happened within view of the windows of the Criminal Investigation Department Building. He had been shanghaied in the shadow of the Yard. If by chance Grice had been at the window, he would have seen everything. At least that made the chance of catching his assailants greater.
Unexpectedly, a man with a deep voice spoke just behind him.
“Okay, now. Soon have you out of there.”
The boat was near, with two men in it, one of them standing up and balancing precariously in the bows, the other wielding the oars. They had come up to him as silently as the men who had attacked him. The man in the bows moved to one side, knelt down, and held out a hand. Rollison told himself that he could scramble over without much help, and found it more difficult than he had expected. But soon he was sitting with his head in his hands, sick again, his head aching and the memory of fear almost as frightening as fear itself.
They reached a flight of steps at the end of the pier. At least five hundred people must be gathered, watching, and the wooden floor looked as if it would collapse under their weight. For no reason at all, a rugged cheer came from the crowd gathered there and on the parapet and in small boats which were close by. Rollison stepped on to the solid stone, there was another cheer, and he forced himself to grin as he started up, glad that he was able to rest one hand against the wall.
Then, coming to meet him, he saw Grice.
“Did you see what happened?” Rollison inquired.
“Everything,” Grice answered.
“Made any arrests yet?”
“We will,” Grice said, grimly. “Stop talking until we get across to the Yard.”
“I’m all right.”
“You don’t look it,” Grice said. “And we don’t want everyone to hear what we’re saying. This is worse than a procession!”
Rollison saw that there were crowds lining the road, holding up traffic; and several policemen were clearing a way to allow him and Grice to reach the main gates of the C.I.D. building. The journalists who haunted the Back Room Inspector had gathered just inside, a motley group of individuals, all of whom looked too ordinary to be top-name newspaper men known to the whole nation.
“See who it is?” one man exclaimed.
“Rollison!” breathed another.
“The Toff himself in person,” cried a third, and he was chortling. “Rollison! How about a statement?”
Rollison managed a grin.
“I’m wet,” he announced.
There was a burst of laughter at this simple sally, and the name, the Toff, was taken up. It became a kind of roar. “The Toff,” a man said; “The Toff,” men echoed; “The Toff,” shouted men and women together: the Toff, the Toff, the Toff! Cameras flashed, the lights bright even in the day. None of the newspaper men asked more questions, and Rollison realised that they had probably witnessed exactly what had happened, or else they had already talked to eye-witnesses. He saw the constables on duty at the gates staring at him with round-eyed amazement, heard that roaring fade, and went up the stone steps into the hall where earlier he had seen the sergeant and asked after his wife’s mother. Soon he was led into a small, shining-white first-aid room on that ground floor.
“No need to fuss,” Rollison said. “The sooner I can get into a bathroom and borrow a pair of trousers—”
“You can strip here, and there’s a hot shower next door,” Grice told him. “I’ll fix you up with a raincoat and rug, and we’ll drive you back home.”
“Thanks. Did you see who tipped me over?”
“Yes, but—”
“We can talk while I get these things off,” Rollison said. The first-aid room boasted a small shower in a glass-enclosed cubicle, and there was one large white towel. Other Yard men hovered, the door was always opening and closing, but only Grice was at Rollison’s side. Rollison felt almost himself again, but for a slight nausea and a muzzy headache; the relief from fear was the greatest thing. “How many were there?”
“Two—one from each direction.”
“That’s what fooled me. Recognise them?”
“They were a long way off,” Grice said, defensively.
Rollison stepped beneath the shower and turned the hot-water tap on cautiously.
“That’s right,” he said. “All witnesses are the same: they see something happen in front of their eyes, but you try to make them describe it, and see what results you get. No powers of observation, that’s the trouble with people.”
Grice said gruffly: “All right, all right. There were the trees in the way, and I wasn’t exactly by their side. They were shortish men, both wearing flannels and a blue or black coat, and both wearing rubber-soled shoes. And each,” Grice added, in a tone which stopped Rollison from making any comment, “got clean away on a motor-bicycle which had false number-plates.”
Rollison jerked his head up, and hot water splashed into his face. He choked, dodged, and demanded: “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Dw
ight was attacked by a man on a motor-cycle which had false plates, remember?” said the Toff, almost happily. “And isn’t it a fact that there have been a lot of robberies and hold-ups lately, by men who’ve escaped on motor-bikes?”
“So you’ve noticed that?”
“From time to time I prise my eyes open,” Rollison said modestly. “Could this be an organised group—and now be after Dwight?”
“I suppose it could be,” Grice conceded.
“I think you ought to look into the history of the delusions of Cedric Dwight, don’t you?” The Toff spoke light-heartedly because of the greatness of his own relief, and because here was evidence, which the police could not reject, of a possible association between the attack on him and the attack on Dwight. “Remember that there appeared to be an attempt to prevent Dwight from seeing me, and unlikely though it seems, there now appears to be an attempt to prevent me from probing further into the delusions. Perhaps there were delusions, and perhaps someone has been taking advantage of that situation to give Dwight a real reason for being scared out of his wits. Any idea why anyone would try to frighten him?”
“He’s wealthy, and his family is wealthy; that’s all,” Grice answered.
Rollison turned the cold water on, so that he could be fully refreshed, and he took a cold shower which seemed both to take away the headache and to ease the nausea. He towelled vigorously, and was bone dry when he said: “Let me see if I can dig anything else out, Bill. I’ll try to have some kind of report by to-morrow.”
“I’m not sure that you ought to be allowed to roam about on your own,” Grice protested.
“From now on I shall know exactly what to expect,” Rollison said, grimly.
“I’ll lend you a couple of men to follow you wherever you go, and keep an eye on you,” Grice offered, with the glimmer of a smile in his eyes.
“I’ll let you know if I feel that I need a bodyguard,” Rollison retorted. “How about some trousers?”
“I think I heard someone say they’ve got a pair,” Grice told him.
Ten minutes later, wearing a pair of grey flannels nearly large enough for a man with a fifty-inch waist, and a brown raincoat that was almost too tight for him, Rollison was taken out by a side entrance and handed into a police car, which was driven away by the entrance into Cannon Row. A small crowd of people had gathered, but no one seemed to recognise the Toff. He felt a little more tired than he expected, but told himself that a stiff whisky and a good meal would set him right; all he needed was an hour or two’s rest before going to the East End and beginning the quest for the truth about the Marjorie Fryer murder.
And he might pick up some whispers about the motorcyclist assailants, too; most information filtered through to the East End, and his friends there were legion, all eager to be both his eyes and his ears. He saw that the police had been taken away from Gresham Terrace, as if Grice had given instructions. The driver pulled up outside Number 22, opened Rollison’s door, and asked: “All right to get upstairs, sir?”
“Still sound in wind and limb,” Rollison said. “Yes, thanks.”
“That’s a nasty bump you had on the back of your head,” the driver observed. “I should take it easy for a day or two, if I were you.”
“I will,” said Rollison, almost as if he meant it.
He opened the street door and stepped inside. The headache was back, and he fingered the bump gingerly, realising how right the driver had been; much more than the immersion and the scare had affected him. He had better keep off whisky, or it would go to his head, and give him a really bad hangover. He must go steadily, too; no rushing about for a day or two. His assailants had done almost as well as they wanted; had it been a little worse, the injury would have put him hors de combat. He smiled at the thought, and then realised that he was feeling hungry – a very good sign indeed.
He reached his own front door.
It did not open.
There was no real reason why it should, and yet Rollison was puzzled. To-night Jolly would surely be on the lookout for him, being very anxious. Moreover, Jolly had a kind of sixth sense which was allied to an ingenious wiring system planned to amplify sounds outside the house. He would have heard the police-car door slam, and almost certainly would have hurried to the front room to make sure who it was. Once he knew, he would open the front door.
That happened very often; yet it didn’t happen now.
Rollison took out his keys, and let them rattle, inserted the front-door key, and hesitated only for a moment. There was probably nothing at all to worry about, but he had to make sure. Jolly might be deeply involved in making the impressions of Dwight’s keys, for instance.
Rollison turned his key in the lock, pushed the door open a fraction, and then flung it back.
As it swung open, a man whom he had never seen before backed wildly away to dodge the door. In his waving right hand was a shiny leather cosh, the kind of weapon already used on the Toff that night.
Chapter Seven
Cosh-Boy
Rollison saw two things in the same moment: that the man there was young and wiry and powerful; and that although he was taken off his guard, that would last only for a moment. The greatest danger was that someone else might be in the flat.
Rollison jumped forward, stretching out for the other’s right wrist. His fingers brushed the cosh as the man tried to wield it; then Rollison gripped the sinewy wrist, and twisted and thrust the arm upwards. If the trick came off, he would have the other helpless – but if the man knew all the tricks of judo, he might throw off the Toff’s grip and do him desperate harm.
Rollison heard the man give a little squeal.
There were no footsteps, nothing to suggest that anyone else was here.
For a moment they were locked together; and this man was good – each was near to breaking point. There was determination touched by fear on a hard, leathery, pale face; and greater fear in a pair of very pale grey eyes. Rollison put on extra pressure in a supreme effort, but could not keep it up. If the other didn’t give way now—”
The cosh dropped, thudded, and lay against Rollison’s foot. The man’s tension slackened.
Rollison maintained his grip, with much less effort, and said: “Go back a pace.” The man obeyed, and Rollison stepped with him, then kicked the door to and kicked the cosh, which slid along the carpet like a great black slug. There was a moment of silence, during which the fear in the other’s eyes dimmed a little, as if he were assessing his chances, and had decided that they were good.
Rollison let him go, gripped his shoulder and swung him round, seized his right wrist again and thrust his arm upwards in a hammerlock; no one could have hoped to break it.
“We’re going into the room on the right first,” Rollison said, flatly. “Take it one long step at a time. Don’t jerk your arm; I’m no good at fixing splints.”
The man seemed eager to obey.
He was half a head shorter than the Toff, his hair was cut very short, and he was surprisingly lean for a young man. His scalp showed here and there, very white. His neck was hard and white, too. Rollison urged him forward to the big room. Opposite the door was the desk and the Trophy Wall; and in that wall a small mirror, set so that he could see anyone sitting on the other side. No one appeared in it, and there was only one corner which he could not see. He stepped into the room, still holding the man in that merciless grip, and glanced at the corner to make sure that it was empty.
“There—there’s no one else here,” the man muttered. “Let me go.”
“When I’ve broken your neck,” Rollison said, pleasantly.
He had left Dwight and Jolly here.
He felt alarm rising, worse because his own immediate crisis was over. His head ached and his heart pounded for fear of what he might discover. He did not speak, or tell this man what he would do if he found Jolly injured or dead, but he knew what he would want to do.
An eye for an eye …
He forced the man from room to room,
and in each one his fears grew worse. There was no sign of Jolly in the kitchen, the spare room, or his own quarters; and there was no sign of Cedric Dwight. Rollison finished the search and made sure that no one was here, then thrust the man into a closet which had only a small window facing the area at the back. He slammed the door on him, and turned the key in the lock; that gave a moment’s breathing space. Rollison drew his hand over his forehead; it came away damp. He went to the kitchen and the back door, and saw that the key wasn’t turned in the lock. It was, usually; that was a rule of the flat.
He opened the door on to the platform at the top of the iron staircase.
There was Jolly …
If it had been anyone else, if it had been at any other time, it would have been funny enough for a laugh. For Jolly was folded up inside the large dustbin, which stood on the platform, and the lid lay near it. A wooden fence hid the dustbin and back door from sight of neighbouring flats and he could not be seen except from this door. His eyes were open, and the fact that he was not moving told Rollison that he was bound by the arms and probably by the legs. Rollison lost a moment in sheer relief, and then said: “All right, Jolly. Give me half a minute.”
He saw Jolly’s face, the mouth covered with a huge patch of adhesive plaster; his assailants had made a thorough job of that, but had not really hurt him. There remained a big problem: how could he get Jolly out of the dustbin without exerting himself too much? The obvious thing was to turn the bin on one side.
“I’m going to roll this into the kitchen and then lower it,” Rollison said. “If anyone comes into the courtyard, we’ll have had it.”
He heaved at the dustbin, and the edge scraped against the wall; then it began to clatter on the iron platform. The noise was loud enough to be heard in a dozen flats. He turned the big bin on to its bottom edge and rolled it awkwardly over the step of the kitchen door and into the kitchen. Its weight took it away from him, and for a moment it looked as if Jolly would be thrown out, head hard against the handle of the refrigerator. Rollison grabbed, steadied, and slowly lowered it. Now Jolly’s head and shoulders were out, and Rollison squatted down, put his hands inside the bin so that he could cup the other’s elbows, and draw him out gradually. Jolly’s wrists were secured behind his back, and his ankles were tied. So as to make a perfect job, a rope had been tied from wrists to ankles; it was almost impossible for him to move.
